Promises Honored
by Robin4
Summary: He made the choice knowing full well what the consequences might be, but expecting death does not necessarily prepare you for hell. In 1981, Sirius Black ignored the dangers to himself and became the Potters’ Secret Keeper. Prequel to Promises Unbroken,AU
1. Prologue: Promises Epilogue

**Promises Honored**

* * *

**_Prologue: Promises' Epilogue_**

* * *

Every beginning has an end, though sometimes the two flip-flopped or joined together, a phenomenon that some people called going full circle. _He'd _have called the concept crap, however. He'd been called many things in his life: friend, enemy; rebel, hero; student and teacher. The one thing he'd never been was predictable, but he was consistently inconsistent. Dependable even when he tried to pretend he wasn't. A completely contradictory contradiction—even his friends had a hard time figuring it out. Once, only once, he'd mentioned that an enemy perhaps knew him best of all.

There was a monument on a hill top, standing lonely against a starry sky. This time of year, if you stood at the right angle, the Dog Star could be seen shining down on the black marble monument, and there was enough ambient light that magic was hardly needed to illuminate the words.

**Sirius Black**

**1960-1981**

_**Faithful until the end.**_

_**Gone, but never forgotten.**_

This wasn't quite a funeral, though it was quiet and solemn. The wake would come later, as wild and as carefree as Sirius could have wanted. They'd celebrate him for all of his rough edges and for every one of his contradictions, honoring the man they'd known, the man they'd _believed _in. He'd been a reluctant hero, but he'd saved them when no one else could.

The date, of course, had little meaning. Most people wouldn't have understood what had happened on this day, the twenty-fourth of October, just one hundred and twenty-one years ago. Some remembered, but their number was growing fewer.

An old man stepped up to the podium, squeezing his wife's hand on his way by. He wasn't ancient, not by Wizarding standards, tallying only a bit over one hundred and twenty years. But he'd gone gray early, much to everyone's surprise, and was a "distinguished" silver these days.

The body of Sirius Black was elsewhere—every one of the thousands of witches and wizards present had known that for some time. This wasn't a grave; it was simply a place to remember promises that had been made and promises that had never been broken. It didn't need to be more than that, and couldn't, anyway…regardless of what the silent onlookers might have wanted.

A little known Wizarding law stated that every Auror, could their body be recovered, had to be interred in the Ministry of Magic's vaults. Necromancy had fallen out of fashion over the past millennia, but no one wanted bodies lying about for the next aspiring Dark Lord to dig up and use. Of course, of all Aurors who died on active duty, over half of their bodies were never recovered. These days were quieter, but no one present had forgotten the war.

"1981," the silver-haired, green-eyed Harry Potter said, "was a year that changed everything. And in a very real sense, in _1981_, Sirius Black saved us all."

------------

* * *

Ye Olde Author's Note: A short beginning, but a beginning nonetheless—and stay with me, as this is only the beginning. But if you're new to this story, fear not! Although this is one of many installments in the "Unbroken Universe", this is actually (chronologically) the first story in the arc. But if you're not new to the UU, or don't mind reading the other stories out of order, feel free to check out _Promises Unbroken, Promises Remembered_, and _Promises Defended _here on FFN. And as always (as I'm a typical author), please do let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 1: One Choice

**Chapter One: Promises Made**

* * *

**October 20, 1981**

Their professors would hardly have recognized them now. Carefree, wild, and out of control, James Potter and Sirius Black had careened their way through Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, leaving pranks and disasters strewn in their wake and excelling only through the lucky possession of superior intellect. They were always smiling in those days—unless deep in concentration whilst planning another escapade, and nothing seemed to bother them.

Not so, these days.

Neither looked much older than their twenty-one years, but both looked tired. Sirius appeared less so, but even with his friends, he presented an almost deadly-cheerful exterior. James suspected that doing so was a defense mechanism developed out of growing up in the miserable home he'd run away from five years ago. That self-same family still hounded him, James knew, pressing Sirius to become the family spy within the Aurors.

He'd contemplated double-crossing them more than once, but kept coming to the conclusion that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black wasn't worth his time—besides, he'd told James, he'd have to _talk _to his parents in order to betray them, and he was more than happy having already been disowned. Never mind that he was a rising star in the Aurors, ranking far above his best friend and partner, and he'd _earned _that. James understood that Sirius wasn't going to risk losing the hard-won trust of his fellow Aurors; the white sheep in the Black nest had a hard enough time getting where he was and had no intention of going back.

"What d'you think?" Sirius asked around his ale. The pair had left the Order of the Phoenix's meeting and headed into the Muggle pub for some time alone. James' quiet use of a Privacy Charm ensured that their conversation wouldn't be overhead by nearby patrons, though both had done a thorough scan of Partridge's Pub before speaking. Thus far, they were the only wizards in the place, and they intended to keep it that way.

"Hell of a thing to tell a new mother, that," James finally replied, forcing his voice to be level. "Lily doesn't sleep enough as it is, and this is only going to give her nightmares."

"It gives _me _nightmares, mate, and I'm only Harry's godfather." Sirius ran a hand through his recently-trimmed black hair. "Even Frank looked rattled, and he's solid as a bloody rock."

"It's different when there's a crazy prophecy about Voldemort and your _kid_, Padfoot. Dumbledore's not exactly the nervous type, either, and he's the one who told us to go into hiding." James scowled. "Speaking for myself…I'd rather just spit in the bastard's eye and tell him to do his worst, but I can't do that to Lily. If Voldemort caught me, he'd force her to choose between me and Harry, and…"

He trailed off with a shudder.

"And that's the reason you have to, James," Sirius finished for him. "No one's calling you a coward for protecting your wife and child."

"Except for me, you mean," he sighed.

"Well, you've always been dense."

"Thanks, mate."

Sirius grinned briefly. "Anytime."

Somehow, the light response—and the knowledge buried beneath Sirius' easy smile—threw James off balance. He'd been rehearsing this conversation in his mind ever since Dumbledore had warned him that he, Lily, and Harry would have to go into hiding, yet somehow Sirius' acceptance of _everything _made the words harder to say.

The Order's Inner Circle, the Potters, and the Longbottoms had heard Trelawney's prophecy for the first time just over an hour ago, and acting normally was almost impossible. Just thinking about it made a chill tear down James' spine; the words kept echoing in his mind.

"So," Sirius said when James couldn't speak. "Dumbledore suggested the Fidelius Charm. Even Voldemort knows the obvious choice for Secret Keeper is me, so when do we start?"

"Padfoot…"

"I'm serious, Prongs." He didn't even smile, didn't pounce on the over-used play on words. "You've got to do this, and the sooner the better. Moody already knows, and he'd cover for us in the Auror Division."

"I can't ask you do this," James finally managed to get out around the lump in his throat.

"Good thing you don't have to, then."

* * *

Two hours later, they were sitting in the house at Godric's Hollow with Lily and a (thankfully) sleeping Harry, who was nestled in a baby carrier on the couch between the Potters.

"I had a thought," Sirius said slowly, watching James' expression carefully. Lily hadn't been shocked when told of Sirius' offer, just grateful, but now her emerald eyes were focused on Sirius full of something akin to reverence. They'd known one another for years, he and Lily, and they'd even been friends after she and James had fallen for one another, but she'd never looked at him like this.

It made Sirius feel guilty, knowing what he was about to suggest.

"I don't smell smoke," James replied lightly, making a show of sniffing the air. "Must not be a good one."

Sirius managed a half smile, knowing it was lopsided. He felt _terrible_, just thinking this, but… _If there's one thing I've learned in the Aurors, it's that being _nice _gets people killed. If you're not suspicious of everyone, you're going to wind up in a locked vault on Avalon for all eternity._ He sucked in a deep breath and plunged in before he could lose the courage to do so.

"I may not be the best person to be your Secret Keeper. I'm willing—more than willing, so don't think I'm bugging out of anything—but like I said earlier, I _am _obvious. Every Death Eater knows we're partners, James, and I'm your oldest friend. If you're parents were still alive, they might think of someone else, but…"

He trailed off as all three remembered the brutal murders of David and Diana Potter, and then forced himself to continue.

"Anyway, what I'm saying is that if Voldemort wants to find you, he'd know where to look. And while I certainly don't plan on telling him anything more than my Mum's terrible recipe for escargo enflambe"—Sirius grinned briefly—"he'd still know who he has to ask."

"You could go into hiding," Lily suggest quietly. "Dumbledore said—"

"I know," Sirius cut her off. "I heard him. But I think a bit of creative misdirection might come in handy here."

James' eyes widened in realization. "You mean Remus."

"I wish I did." _Now here's the part to feel guilty about, Padfoot-my-boy._ "But we know that Voldemort has been recruiting Dark Creatures, making promises—"

"You can't think _Remus _would betray us!" Lily cut him off angrily.

"The bastard you never suspect is the one who gets you in the end," Sirius retorted with one of Moody's favorite aphorisms. Then he sighed. "Lily, I don't _think _he would. But he's a werewolf, and once a month he can't control himself. What if they could find a way to get at him then?"

Sirius didn't finish the argument, glad that Lily's reluctant nod saved him from doing so. He'd have gladly trusted Remus with his life, or even with James' or Lily's, but Harry was a _baby._ He couldn't fight back. He couldn't even understand what was happening. He didn't have a choice, so they couldn't be too careful.

"I was thinking of Peter," he concluded quietly.

"Peter?" James and Lily echoed in unison.

"Yeah. Look at it this way: if I'm the obvious Secret Keeper, and everyone thinks I did it, I go into hiding and the bad guys chase me. Meanwhile, Wormtail slips off, tucks himself into some tiny hole no one can get in, let alone find…and you've got two layers of security. Even Dumbledore wouldn't know that it wasn't me."

"Not tell Dumbledore?" Lily asked slowly, frowning. "I'm not really…comfortable with that."

But Sirius' eyes were on James.

"I'm not sure I could do that to Peter," his best friend said after a long moment. He's only in the Order because we are, and he's been trying to stay on the fringes of the war. He's come so far, but…"

"But can you imagine him in Voldemort's hands?" Lily whispered.

Sirius was trying very had not to.

* * *

By the end of the evening, they'd only managed to delay the decision for a few days while the Potters considered their options. A farewell dinner at James and Lily's was already planned for October 24th, anyway—something Dumbledore had advised against, but the Marauders simply had to do. They'd decide by then, and whoever planned to be Secret Keeper would stay when the others left.

Peter hadn't been asked, yet. And Remus would never know. Lily's words kept echoing in Sirius' mind, and he'd had nightmare after nightmare envisioning his friend in Voldemort's hands. The thought of being tortured didn't bother Sirius so much for himself (at least he tried not to think it did), but for Peter…

The words popped out without his meaning to let them.

"I'm thinking about not being the Potters' Secret Keeper," he told Moody on the afternoon before the dinner.

"What kind of birdbrained idiot are you, boy? _Constant vigilance! _Don't go blabbing your secrets out for every Death Eater to hear," the legendary Auror growled at him, snapping his wand out and muttering a Privacy Charm along with a half dozen different shielding spells. They were alone in Moody's office, which was theoretically secure, but both knew better.

Sirius shrugged helplessly. He really hadn't meant to be quite so…_open _about it, but he needed advice. Badly. His attempt at explanation was weak. "Misdirection?"

"Don't sound so confident," his former Mentor snorted.

"I'm—"

"I don't want to know," Moody cut him off. "Don't trust _anyone, _Sirius. Not with this."

"If you're a traitor, Alastor, we're done for," the younger man retorted. "All of us, the Ministry, the Aurors, and especially the Order. If I can't trust you, who can I trust?"

"Dumbledore," was the immediate answer.

"He's got enough on his mind."

Moody shrugged. "True enough." His one live eye zeroed in on Sirius; the other rolled back and forth several times before doing the same. "Mad-Eye" hadn't had the replacement for long, and it was still giving him problems from time to time. But he was all business, clearly not caring that the wildly rolling eye drove Sirius to distraction. "Now, assuming you blurted that out on purpose and _meant _to be overheard, the obvious answer is that you do it anyway. Be Jimmy-boy's Secret Keeper and make everyone think you chickened out."

"Except—" Sirius tried to object.

"Except that's the obvious answer, and obvious won't do. Even the dumb Death Eaters know that, and you've got a reputation for being so unpredictable that you surprise yourself," the other Auror reasoned. "So then the answer is that you don't do it. And you find someone no one would expect."

All this double- and triple-think was making Sirius dizzy.

"Of course, you have to find someone with the sheer guts to stand up to torture," Moody continued dispassionately. "Because Voldemort will catch up with whoever it is, boy. Make no mistake about that."

Sirius couldn't help shivering. He might have been offended by the detached acceptance in the other's voice, but he knew that Alastor had lost a lot of friends in the war and was haunted by each memory, by each might-have-been. He could see the hint of old pain in the blue eye—the real eye—and could see that Alastor hoped he wouldn't do it.

It was a forlorn hope every Auror shared: _Not my friend. Not this time. _Sirius knew the feeling well.

If he asked his boss what he should do, Moody would tell him to find someone else and keep bringing the fight to Voldemort. Sirius was his protégée, the most successful Auror of his generation. Someone else could hide; Sirius' job was to fight. As head of the Auror Division, Moody was obligated to say just that.

If he asked his _friend_, his teacher, the answer would be the same. They'd grown too close for anything else, and even Moody had his breaking point. Even Moody could only take so much.

Sirius meant to ask. In another lifetime, he would have. But something stopped him.

"I'm going to do it," Sirius Black said quietly.

_And one choice changed it all._

* * *

**October 24, 1981**

Peter was never told. After dinner was eaten and goodbyes were exchanged, Sirius stayed behind to execute the Fidelius Charm that would protect his best friend and his family. Everyone knew where the Potters were, of course, but that wasn't the beauty of that old and complicated magic. Voldemort himself could look in the windows of their home and not see the Potters; without being _told_, he could do nothing.

And they had a bit of time. Several days would pass before the news reached the Dark Lord—officially, the Potters were vacationing in France, "running" just a tad too obviously. So, Sirius went back to work until the other shoe dropped, buying James, Lily, and Harry every moment he could.

_Misdirection_, Moody called it. Sirius just knew it was necessary. He had to do what he could to save his friend, no matter what it cost. James would do the same, Sirius knew, just as Remus or Peter would. They'd made promises, promises they would _keep_.

Over a decade would pass before anyone understood how very much one choice could matter.

* * *

Moody introduced them the next day, as Sirius went about his normal life as best he could, coming to work with a reckless grin on his face and not a care in the world.

Gawain Robards was a rookie, barely two days out of his Mentorship with Gideon Prewett. Strictly speaking, he'd needed some more time, but Prewett and his brother had been trapped and murdered, and then there simply hadn't been anyone available to take the kid on. Sirius was years away from being actual Mentor-material (and trying like hell to keep people thinking that he was too irresponsible to take on a student), but he'd inherited Robards for the time being.

Not that their relationship was going to last long, given the way things were going at the moment. But Sirius would do his best, despite the deer-in-the-motorbike-headlights look that Robards was giving him.

"Robards, meet Sirius Black. You'll be his new partner," Moody gestured from one to the other, looking even more grumpy than usual. "Sirius, this pink-cheeked fuzzy child is Gawain Robards. You'll be babysitting him."

"Fantastic," Sirius replied, struggling not to laugh at the shocked expression on the kid's face. He extended a hand cheerfully. "Nice to meet you."

"Um, yes—_Sirius_ Black?" Robards squeaked, his hand going limp in Sirius'. "_The _Sirius Black?"

"The one and only. Seriously Sirius."

Sometimes, he absolutely couldn't resist.

"You do that again, boy, and I'll hex you into next year!" Moody barked, making Sirius' grin grow.

"Don't mind the old man," he told his new partner. "He just wishes his parents had named him something that had a such nifty ring to it."

If possible, Robards' eyes only got bigger. Sirius, however, just grinned back at Moody, knowing that his old Mentor's good eye was twinkling. Contrary to popular belief, Moody _did _actually possess a sense of humor—most people just didn't get to see it. Sirius, however, knew the crusty Auror well, and half of his poking fun at Robards was aimed Moody's way. After all, if he couldn't poke fun at Moody, who could?

"You're riding for a fall, you are, boy-o," was Moody's dark response.

"Usually am. Isn't that one of the problems you have with me?" Sirius countered, and then flashed Robards a genuine smile. "Why don't you and I go get acquainted, kid, while Alastor goes off to torment someone else?"

"Sure," Robards managed to squeak, and Sirius led him away as Moody snorted out laughter behind them.

Robards' hero-worshiping attitude improved a bit during the following briefing, but if Sirius had honestly thought he'd be with the young Auror for any extended period of time, he'd have gone crazy. He'd become quite well-known as an Auror over the past few years, but he'd never encountered something like _this_—did the younger generation _really _see him like that? He was hardly _that _much older than the lot of them. He'd not expected anyone to admire him so much, and Robards' obvious wonder gave him the creeps.

Still, as unfair as it was to Robards, the kid's presence was really only part of the game. Misdirection at its finest—if Sirius acted as if he'd done nothing special, hid out in the open, perhaps Voldemort wouldn't suspect him as the Potters' Secret Keeper.

* * *

**October 26, 1981**

Then the other shoe dropped ahead of schedule.

The offending piece of footwear, of course, was dear cousin Trixie, Bellatrix Lestrange. She was confident enough to come after Sirius alone in the Leaky Cauldron, just naive enough to think that she'd pull it off and win her master's undying gratitude. She almost didn't leave.

Sirius' Dragon's Breath (a very hard mixture of cider and firewhiskey) was halfway to his mouth when a red jet of light hit it square-on, splattering glass and drink everywhere. With a bit better aim, Bellatrix might have ended the encounter then and there, but even Aurors had a hard time Apparating and hexing someone at the same time. Death Eaters were nasty, but they hardly had the same degree of formal training.

"Get down!" Sirius bellowed at his partner, yanking the younger Auror down when he hesitated.

"_Obfirmum__!"_ Bellatrix shrieked as Sirius dove behind a recently upturned table, dragging Robards along with him. He popped his head up to take a quick look-around and fire a curse back her way.

"_Stupefy!" _

It was a weak opener, and Bellatrix batted the spell aside easily, but at least she'd been distracted long enough for Sirius to see what was going on.

"_Crucio!" _she shouted in return, but the table took the spell without breaking; thankfully, the furniture in the Leaky Cauldron had long since been reinforced against just about anything(between duels and brawls and misplaced hexes, the Wizarding pub had seen _everything_) and the spell simply bounced away.

Almost all the patrons had taken cover or Apparated away the moment Bellatrix had popped in; there were few people brave enough to stick themselves in between Aurors and a Death Eater, especially when that Death Eater was notoriously cruel. Of course, Sirius hadn't exactly chosen the Leaky Cauldron because it was a _safe _refuge; in fact, he'd come there for the exact opposite reason. If anything was going to tell him that he was on Voldemort's hit list, coming out in the open would do the trick. Perhaps it was reckless, but he needed to know.

Few people came to the Leaky Cauldron to socialize these days, not with no one able to tell if their neighbor at the bar was a Death Eater, a sympathizer or just plain crazy. No one dared make friends these days, or even casual acquaintances; Wizarding society was on the verge of breaking down as people stayed home and hid, hoping for something—anything—to make things better. Coming out in the open and fighting the Dark Lord made you a target, and few people had the guts or the skills to survive that.

Sirius Black, however, had plenty of both.

"_Extundo!"_he bellowed, and got his head up just in time to watch the curse hit Bella full-on in the chest. She stumbled and swore, her return spell flying far wide of the table the Aurors sheltered behind and striking the glasses lined up behind the bar.

_Crash._ Tom the bartender yelped in pain, but Sirius didn't have time to worry about him.

"Anti-Apparation wards, now!" he ordered Robards.

"What?"

The kid's voice was shaky, and a quick glance his way showed Sirius a face so white that it might have belonged to a ghost.

"Anti—"

"_Debellum!"_ Bellatrix cut him off, her voice high and furious.

"_Everbero!" _Sirius shot back, not bothering to watch his cousin's counter. He twisted back to face Robards. "Anti-Apparation wards, get them up now!"

"Oh! Right—"

He didn't listen to the rest of the sentence.

"_Roteventilo!"_

Luck was with him; Sirius' next try hit, too, even as the fringes of Bellatrix's next Stunner made his fingers tingle—he hadn't gotten his hand out of the way in time. But she was flying backwards, spinning over twice in the process, and clearly hurting.

_We've got her this time—_Sirius started to think. But he was too smart to come out of his crouch just yet; even injured, Trixie was dangerous—

_Pop._

And she was gone.

"Wards up," Robards finished lamely.

"Shit," Sirius sighed, not bothering to put too much emotion into the word. It wasn't like he'd really expected his little test to catch anyone, anyway; Bellatrix's ambush had answered the important questions already.

"Sorry about that, Sirius," Robards said sheepishly. "I thought you had her."

"So'd I." He managed to shrug as if it didn't matter, but Sirius knew it did. Only three days had passed since the casting of the Fidelius Charm, but the game was up.

_Pop._

The appearance of "Mad-Eye" Moody made Robards jump. _Apparently, he needs to work on those Anti-Apparation wards, _Sirius thought wryly. _There's no way Figg would have let him graduate Avalon like this!_ Moody wasted no time with the startled kid, though; he turned straight to Sirius.

"You got a bolt hole, boy?" the older Auror demanded, stomping his wooden leg against the ground for emphasis. His actions drew the attention of every witch and wizard still in the place, of course—but Moody wasn't asking questions he already knew the answers for his own health. He was asking to impress the audience.

Every word passed here would get back to Voldemort, and they both knew it. Maybe the news already_ had _reached the Dark Lord, maybe even through young Robards. The Aurors knew there was at least one spy in their ranks, and no one had any idea who might be the traitor. However, the question had now been voiced aloud, and everyone knew Moody wasn't that careless. _A little misdirection…_

"Yeah," Sirius nodded, looking distracted for the crowd. "I'll—"

"_Constant vigilance, _Black!" the shout cut him off. "I don't want to know. Get you gone."

Of course, Alastor didn't want to know—he already _did, _since he was Sirius' life insurance policy. They'd thought about casting a second Fidelius Charm to protect Sirius, but that was just foolish. It was hard enough magic to manage once, and Moody couldn't afford to disappear. Neither could Sirius afford to wait for the charm to expire if Moody died in the line of duty.

_Anything's possible, _Sirius told himself for the billionth time. _I might even survive this._

He smiled at Moody, one last reckless grin, and then Sirius was gone.

* * *

Harry was crying already when the head appeared in their fire. James, however, was too distracted by his munchkin, to even notice the call until Lily's voice reached Harry's room.

"James! Get down here, you've got a call!"

Even within the safe confines of their home at Godric's Hollow, she didn't dare say more—and if that wasn't a sign of the times, James knew nothing else was. Hidden away and protected by some of the most advanced magic known to Wizardkind, Lily didn't dare speak Sirius' name aloud.

And of course it was Sirius. The Secret Keeper was the only one who could make a Fire Call once the Fidelius Charm was in effect; everyone else would just see an empty house, even if the Potters had tried to talk to them. Any Fire Call wasn't _safe, _though; the Ministry of Magic could still track calls (as could Voldemort, probably), which meant Sirius didn't often call—this, in fact, was the first time he'd dared.

"Everything okay?" James asked immediately, hurrying into the room.

"Yep. I'm leaving now. I just thought you should know."

James recognized the Auror Division's office in the background—_that's Moody's office!_—and he almost laughed aloud. Moody's office fire (installed in complete violation of the Ministry of Magic and Auror Regulations) was actually untraceable. Trackers could tell that the call originated in Auror Headquarters, but not where it went.

Then Sirius' words sank in, and James' smile vanished.

He swallowed the sudden dry lump in his throat, forcing a deep breath in around it. Speaking was hard. "Thanks. Really. For everything."

Sirius grinned, and James would always consider this the last image he had of his friend.

"I'll see you on the other end, Prongs."

* * *

He left Moody's office right away and picked up the pre-packed bags from his own flat, shrinking them down in size so that they easily slipped into a pocket of his regulation robes (Aurors had stopped wearing uniforms in public some time ago as a safety precaution, but Sirius had always loved to flout the rules). He couldn't exactly call the next person, couldn't risk it, but he had to say goodbye. _Somehow._

She knew, of course—he'd never told her that he was James' Secret Keeper, but to pretend that she didn't realize that was stupid. Worse than stupid, as she knew Sirius far better than that, and wouldn't tell anyone, anyway, even if they _did _ask. And they would. So…Sirius sent her a letter, agonizing longer on those few lines than he had time to waste.

_Julia,_

_I'll miss you. I'm sorry I can't say more._

_Don't fall in any holes in Africa, or wherever you are this time. I'll see you when this is all over._

_Sirius_

Suicidal, Moody called his relationship with Julia Malfoy. Unhealthy, was Dumbledore's verdict. On-again, off-again was how Peter described it, and Remus maintained that she was "dangerously good" for Sirius. However you cut it, though, Sirius couldn't vanish without a trace. Not without telling her _something_.

Maybe a relationship with a top Death Eater's sister was a disaster waiting to happen, but Sirius trusted her. He sent the owl on its way moments before he left his flat for the last time, taking a deep breath and raising his wand.

* * *

Sixteen hours, one train ride, three cross-country broom flights, and two dozen Apparations later, Sirius hauled his bags into the rundown flat he was renting under a Muggle identity he'd prepared years ago for a mission and never had used. His broom flew off in yet another direction on its own; accounting for stops along the way, another forty-three hours would pass before it dove into the English Channel and automatically shattered into a thousand-plus pieces. No one knew its flight path except Sirius—even Moody didn't expect him to settle into his flat for another few days.

_Misdirection._

Everyone expected Sirius to get as far away from James as he could, to keep his distance from the Ministry of Magic. Running was a logical part of hiding. Distance meant time, and by getting away, Sirius could give the Potters long enough, perhaps, for Voldemort to decide their son was not important enough to kill.

Sirius, however, was a contradiction for a reason. He believed in hiding in plain sight, which was why he'd chosen a nondescript apartment building located in the outskirts of Muggle London, a place so normal and so close that no one would bother looking there. Of course, he was also a student of Alastor Moody's Professional School of Pessimistic and Paranoid Aurors, so he also believed in setting up booby traps…lots of booby traps.

The Death Eaters would find him eventually if they tried hard enough, and Sirius would be ready.

* * *

Ye Olde Author's Note: Here we go! Again, if you haven't checked out the rest of the UU, feel free to take a look at _Promises Unbroken _and the follow-on stories, available here on my profile. Also check out the Unbroken Universe Yahoo Group at http:/ .com/group/Unbroken_Universe/ (remove the space between the http:/ and the address) and the Unbroken Universe Café Press shop at http:/ www. /unbroken_u. As always, thank you very much for reading, and please do review!


	3. Chapter 2: A World Once Lost

**Chapter Two: A World Once Lost**

* * *

**October 31, 1981**

They were trying so hard _live _a normal life…and almost succeeding. Just a week had passed since the casting of the Fidelius Charm, and Lily figured that if James hadn't gone crazy from the inactivity yet, she was doing pretty well. The quiet, however, bothered her as well—she'd become to accustomed to _doing _things, not sitting and hiding.

"I miss trick-or-treaters sometimes," she said pensively, distracting herself by bouncing Harry off her hip as the little boy giggled.

"Tricker-whaters?" James replied around a mouthful of Peppermint Toads, making Lily snicker.

"Well, you've got the appropriate idea, at any rate, even if you are a wizard," she grinned.

"Whatever _are _you talking about?"

Lily tossed Harry upwards before replying, listening to her son squeal in delight. When she was younger, she would not have dreamed of doing such a dangerous thing, but being a witch had its advantages. "Muggle children go from house to house trick-or-treating on Halloween," she explained. "They wear costumes and collect candy from their neighbors."

"What kind of costumes?" James asked curiously.

"Oh, like witches, wizards, ghosts, vampires and the like." She giggled. "You know. Scary things. Things that don't exist."

James howled with laughter. "So, in other words, they pretend to be us for a day?" Lily nodded. "I could like this tradition!"

"I bet you could. You'd think dressing up as a Muggle construction worker great fun."

"A what?"

"Never mind." She rose, smiling as her husband shrugged and attempted to stuff five still jumping Chocolate Frogs into his mouth. "While you get fat, I believe it's time to put this munchkin to bed."

"Hey! I'm not fat!"

Lily arched an eyebrow at him as Harry giggled louder. He was such a happy child…except when his accidents found ways to ruin her best robes, like they had just a few days before they went into hiding. "Not yet you aren't. Keep eating like that and you will be."

"I resent that remark," her husband replied, drawing himself up proudly. "I'll have you know that Aurors don't get _fat_."

Ruthlessly, Lily shoved down the emotions that automatically arose—thinking of Aurors made her think about Sirius, and she still had a hard time wrapping her mind around the fact that James' best friend had so…unhesitatingly sacrificed himself to keep them safe. _He's not dead yet, Lily! _she all but shouted at herself, then forced out a cheerful answer for James' sake.

"HA!"

Up the stairs she traveled, holding a giggling and gurgling Harry in her arms. He could always make her smile, even if he would take some time to fall asleep—Harry was _much_ like his father in that regard, especially when he got excited—but Lily could hardly mind. She hadn't ever expected motherhood to be like this, but then again, who ever knew what to expect out of life? All she knew was that she was lucky—she had a family and a home, and she was safe. _Safe._ In the world they lived in, safety was almost impossible to come by, and Lily wasn't blind to its price.

Opening the door to Harry's room, her thoughts turned again to Sirius, despite her best efforts to be happy. Throughout her first six years at Hogwarts, Lily had despised both James Potter and Sirius Black, though she'd rather hated Sirius more. Why was hard to define—he hadn't been the one pestering her with love notes, corny poems, and professions of his undying devotion (not to mention bi-weekly invitations for _just one chance_)—but his arrogance had bothered her. Of course, Sirius hadn't been like the Slytherins whom he was so closely related to, looking down at her simply because she was Muggleborn. He'd just been _arrogant. _He'd been a handsome, talented, and carefree example of pureblooded wizardry, and the bastard hadn't even had to study for his top marks.

Maybe that had been the reason. Or, maybe, just maybe, she really hadn't known him at all. Now, however, she found herself wishing that she'd taken the time to get to know James' friend better, because while she _knew _him, she didn't really know him. And Sirius had sacrificed everything to keep Harry safe.

_When this is over, _Lily promised herself, _I'll thank him properly and get to know him. All three of them. It's time I stopped being the outsider and learned to belong._

* * *

_KNOCK! KNOCK!_

Sirius jumped, leaping for his wand and sending his mug of Abbot Ale flying across the living room. It promptly bounced off the couch and crashed into the far wall, where it shattered and splattered all over the already-stained plaster. He swore, tripped on the rug's upturned corner, and finally managed to grab his wand off of the end table. _Some Auror you are, Sirius Black! What ever happened to constant vigilance and all of Moody's favorite sayings?_

_KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!_

He swore again, and dodged a half-empty bag that he had yet to unpack (but had unfortunately allowed to grow back up to its normal, large, size). Death Eaters didn't knock, did they?

Through the thin and worn door, he could hear voices, but the builders of the run-down flats had been far too cheap to put a peephole in. There was no way of knowing who was on the other side unless he opened the damn thing, and he didn't have to be near any of his friends to hear what Remus would say. As usual, the more sensible Marauder would ask Sirius why in the world he always had to go looking for trouble.

_Because I _like _it, that's why_. _And being a hidden Secret Keeper is boring._

At least his hidden booby traps hadn't gone off yet, which meant no one on the other side was using anything that even remotely resembled offensive magic. Or Dark magic. Or anything else Sirius had managed to think of as threatening.

A soft word temporarily disabled the traps; any spell from Sirius would reactivate them, but for the moment, unlocking the door wouldn't set them off.

Tensing for action, Sirius opened the door a crack, careful not to remove the chain he'd had installed upon arrival just five days before. There was little conceivable way that a group of Death Eaters (or any wizard for that matter) could have made it so close without tripping all of his wards, but stranger things had happened. Then again, it could just be one of his Muggle neighbors, like the poor woman who'd wanted to use his oven the day before. Sirius hadn't bothered explaining that he didn't know _how _to use an oven. He'd just gotten out of the way and watched with interest. Had he been less romantically attached, he might have asked her on a date, but that didn't exactly go well with keeping a low profile.

Neither did opening the door, of course, but he'd already done that.

"Trick or Treat!"

He almost swore again, but bit his tongue just in time. Six Muggle children looked back at him with big and hopeful eyes—though he had a hard time distinguishing their eyes through the mess of masks and face paint. Sirius _thought_ he counted two witches, a vampire, a very strange looking clown, and two children who were draped in white sheets for some reason or another, but it was hard to tell. If those two girls were supposed to be witches, why were their faces green?

"Trick or treat?" one of the sheet-covered boys ventured again, and Sirius blinked.

"Trick or what?" he asked, confused.

One of the girls (the clown) stamped her foot in exasperation. "Don't you have any candy, Mister?"

"Sara!" her mother hissed from the background, flushing bright red in embarrassment. Only then did Sirius notice the buckets that the children held—_Are those supposed to look like pumpkins?_ he wondered. Belatedly, he realized that each child had already assembled an impressive stash of sweets.

"Oh! Candy. Right," Sirius said quickly. Thinking fast, he pointed his wand at the bowl of sweets he'd been enjoying. _"Accio _candy!"

The bright blue bowl landed easily in his right hand, though juggling it and his wand together was no easy feat. The children were staring at him strangely.

"Sorry," Sirius apologized lamely. His heart was only thundering out a minor symphony in his ears now, instead of the full orchestra it had been a moment before. "I was expecting someone else."

Keeping his wand hidden, he extended the bowl to the now-smiling children. _This must be some strange Muggle tradition, _he thought to himself, and then had to wonder why wizards didn't have a similar one. Any chance to get free candy was a good one, after all—

"What's this?" one of the other girls asked, holding up a Chocolate Frog card he'd carelessly left in the bowl.

"Ahh—sorry. Must've dropped that in there by accident." Aware that the two mothers were watching him strangely, Sirius snatched the card out of the vampire-girl's hand. "Have a nice evening."

"Happy Halloween!" the children chorused.

Sirius watched them go, feeling strange. "Happy Halloween."

* * *

As nine o'clock approached, a set of arms wrapped themselves around her from behind. Lily leaned back and smiled.

"Finally asleep?" James whispered in her ear.

"Yes, and don't you dare wake him up," she hissed. It had taken the better part of an hour to put Harry to bed. She'd tried rocking him, singing to him (which she was, admittedly, not very good at), and telling him stories, but Harry simply hadn't wanted to sleep until he'd abruptly nodded off right in the middle of her rendition of Jack and the Beanstalk.

"Me?" he protested innocently. "I'd never do such a thing!"

"Sure you wouldn't. Troublemaker."

James snickered, and then kissed her ear. "Troublemaker though I may be, I am a smart troublemaker," he whispered. "And there's no way this side of Godric Gryffindor returning to life that I'm going to wake him up when I can have you to myself instead."

Despite herself, Lily smiled. The prankster side of her husband was something that everyone saw, but the deeper side of James Potter was one that very few ever even realized existed.

"You know," she said quietly, "I often think about how lucky I am."

"Hmm?" He stopped kissing her neck to ask, "Why's that?"

"I've got you. And Harry." A familiar, almost whispered, fear rose within her, but Lily pushed it aside. "And we're safe."

"Safe." She felt him nod, tense a bit. "Thanks to Sirius."

Lily half-turned in his arms, moving to rest her head on James' shoulder and hugging him tightly. There were some times when she just needed to be held, needed to hide from the world. "I don't know how we're ever going to thank him."

"We aren't." Lily's head snapped up in surprise and she glared at her husband, but James just smiled lopsidedly. "He won't let us, you know."

"We can try."

"Of course we can," he agreed easily. "And I'll think up something appropriately nasty to do to him."

"James!"

"Hey, I'm a Marauder, remember?" he smiled and kissed her lightly. "A natural-born prankster. Just like little Harry will grow up to be."

"Oh, will he?" she challenged, reminding herself at the last moment to keep her voice down.

"With me as a Dad and Sirius as his Godfather?" James snickered. "There's no chance of him being anything else. But you can have the girls."

"Oh, thanks." She rolled her eyes, and then peered up at him curiously. "What girls?"

"Why, the ones we'll have later, of course."

"Oh?" Lily replied. "And when will this 'later' be?"

He smiled slowly. "Would you like to start now?"

* * *

_KNOCK! KNOCK! __**KNOCK! KNOCK!**_

The pounding was much more incessant than usual, and Sirius paused to glare at the door before he rose out of his armchair, grabbing the bowl of candy as he went. This time, he managed to miss tripping over the hole in the carpet—_I really ought to fix that—_but that didn't keep him from grumbling. It wasn't that Sirius didn't like children, or that he hadn't found this strange Muggle tradition fun, but after the hundred and second group of "trick-or-treaters" he was getting a bit sick of it.

Besides, they interrupted the hilarious movie he'd been watching on the television Lily had made him buy. Muggle notions of vampires were simply…_off_. There just wasn't another way to describe them, and no one could have packed that many misconceptions into one package without meaning to—another bloodcurdling scream came out of the television set.

"Oops." Absentmindedly, he aimed his wand over his shoulder and zapped the television with a well placed Silencing Charm.

Just as he reached the door, it occurred to Sirius that he _could_ have used the television's "remote control." He really did know how to work the odd contraption, though he rarely remembered to do so. After all, once he'd mastered channel changing with his wand, what _use _was the remote? _What I shouldn't have done, _Sirius thought with a laugh, _was let the salesman talk me into buying his "top of the line" model. What do I need a remote for when I've got a wand?_

Still smiling, he opened the door, extending the candy bowl as he did so and being careful to keep his wand hidden behind the door.

"Trick or Treat, Dumbass."

Alastor Moody's wand was pointed right at his forehead, and the one-eyed Auror was leering. It actually took Sirius a long moment to realize that this _wasn't _another costumed Muggle child—but any child who left his or her house looking like that would be bound to give their friends nightmares for life. Moody started to laugh. "Well aren't you a—"

Sirius threw the bowl of candy right in his face. He hadn't been able to think of anything else to say, and the distraction worked. An individually packaged lemon drop made its way right into Moody's mouth, and bought Sirius the time to bring his wand around the door.

For a few seconds, the two Aurors simply stared at one another, wands held so close that they were almost poking up the opposite's nose. Then Moody grinned again.

"Well, I suppose you _aren't _as stupid as I was about to call you," he admitted gruffly.

Sirius grinned. "Nice to know you finally understand what I've been telling you for years."

Except for the fact that he _was _that stupid. Had Moody not been watching, Sirius might have kicked himself—literally_._ He'd gotten overconfident, and for someone who was supposed to be paranoid and staying _alive_, that was a very quick way to wind up dead. Or worse.

"Not so fast, boy. I _did _think I taught you better than to open the door without finding out who was on the other side, first."

"It's Halloween, Alastor. I've been handing out sweets all night."

"So?" his former Mentor demanded. "Never—"

"Let my guard down, I know," Sirius replied, chuckling. "Constant vigilance, too. Would you like to come in?"

"That is why I'm here," the other replied pointedly.

Sirius snorted and stepped aside. "Do join me, then."

As Moody came through the door, his eyes flickering warily around the trashy flat, Sirius waved his wand, sending the candy back into the bowl and the bowl back to the table it had started out on. Then he closed and locked the door, running a quick check over all his wards and finding them intact—just in time.

"What would you have done if I was a Death Eater?" his teacher demanded.

"Shoved the candy down your throat."

"I'm being serious," Moody growled.

Sirius grinned. "So'm I."

"Like hell you are. Arrogant little pup."

"Actually, they wouldn't have gotten through my wards, so I don't have much to worry about," he replied with a shrug.

"I got through them, didn't I?" the older Auror shot back.

"Of course you did. The wards are _set _to admit you, grouch."

Moody rolled his eyes (both real and still-disturbingly-not-real; Sirius had yet to get used to the fake one), but didn't bother arguing. He was, after all, the only one who knew where Sirius was hiding—even James and Lily did not. Sirius had been inclined not to tell anyone at all, but Dumbledore's wisdom had prevailed, as usual. The old man had insisted that _someone_ know where Sirius was in case the worst happened, and he'd also insisted that individual not be amongst Sirius' best friends. After another week or so, Sirius planned on showing both Peter and Remus, but for now he'd humor the headmaster. It wasn't like he didn't have time to burn.

"So, why _are_ you here, anyway, Alastor?" Sirius asked after a moment. He could see the other man's eyes wandering around, and really didn't need to hear _Moody _tell him that his flat was a mess—he'd been in Alastor's flat many times, and it was nothing short of a disaster area. It always amazed Sirius how such a meticulous and organized Auror could be such a slob at home, but Alastor certainly was. Compared to his Mentor's home, Sirius' looked positively spotless.

"I figured you might need some company," Alastor replied. "I didn't reckon on you being visited by dozens of Muggle kiddies dressed in costumes."

Sirius chuckled. "You've experienced Muggle 'trick-or-treating', I take it?"

"I've been undercover on Halloween before, yes," was the grunted reply. Then Moody smiled, a rarity for him. "Scared the wits out of me the first time one came knocking. I hit her mother with a knee-reversing heck—"

"You didn't."

"Oh, I did." Alastor shook his head, chuckling. "I had to Obliviate a whole group of them, and _then _had to explain myself to Arabella, who was masquerading as my wife—and oh, did she yell at me. For hours, it felt like, until one of the neighbors called the Muggle Police, and then we had to Obliviate _them._"

Sirius laughed. "When was this?"

"Oh, ten, fifteen years ago. You probably weren't even born yet."

"I am older than twelve, Alastor."

"Could have fooled me, boy."

* * *

And life throughout the Wizarding world went on. Families stayed together, celebrating in quiet ways—the famous Halloween Galas of the Fourteen Families were absent this year, because even they were feeling the strain caused by years of war, and no one dared trust anyone outside of their closest circles of friends. What had once been a day of festivity and fun was now a very private matter, a day to cling to those you cared for in case you never got the chance to do so again. Of course, almost _every _night was like that for those whom the Dark Lord hunted, but Halloween seemed special, somehow. It was almost as if something was waiting to happen, but never did. So life went on.

* * *

Arthur and Molly Weasley also watched a sleeping child, though theirs was younger still. Ginevra Molly Weasley was all of three months and twenty days old, and her older brothers were still learning that she wasn't a toy to be played with. But by ten o'clock, all the boys were asleep, which left the two "new" parents to gaze down on their little girl and smile.

No words had to be said. After so many years, they did not need them—Arthur and Molly only hoped that there would be many more.

"Mum?" a quiet voice floated in from the half-open door, making both parents turn.

"What is it dear?" Molly asked.

"George wet the bed again," the five-year-old Percy informed her solemnly. "Fred is crying."

Molly sighed. "We'll be right there."

The perfect moment was ruined, but life went on.

* * *

Unlike so many others, Lachlan and Liz Pritchard had ventured out that evening, walking down a street in Glasgow hand in hand. They shared a quiet dinner together, and then had joined some old friends of Lachlan's for a _Muggle _Halloween party, which Liz had found especially enlightening—and extraordinarily fun. The child of a witch and a Squib, Liz had never been to a Muggle costume party, but she had enjoyed herself all the same. Now, they blended in with the partygoers as they poured out into the street, still wearing their "witch and wizard" costumes that Lachlan had so enjoyed making. The green paint made Liz's face itch, but it was worth the fun.

And just for once, it was nice to forget that they'd go back to work tomorrow, burying themselves in the mystery and darkness of the Unspeakables. _But not tonight._ For a few more hours, they were just husband and wife. The real world did not matter.

* * *

"We shouldn't be doing this, Charlie!" Lindsay Hopper whispered urgently as they crept across the grounds.

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I must have left it back in Gryffindor Tower, where we're all _supposed_ to be!" she retorted.

"Oh, give it up, Lindsay," Jason Montague, the only seventh year in their group, chuckled. "It's not like Professor McGonagall didn't give us permission to practice tonight."

"Yes, _before _the feast," Lindsay retorted. "Not four hours later!"

"Ah, if Halloween isn't for being out late, what day _is_?" David Davidson replied with a grin.

"You're crazy," Lindsay rolled her eyes, but fell silent as the Gryffindor Quidditch team trudged on through the darkness.

"Not really," Jason replied with a grin. "I just want a good alibi when Filch asks how those exploding pumpkins got in his office."

"You didn't!" David turned to stare.

"Oh, yes we did," the team's captain replied with a grin. "I _told _you we would, didn't I?"

"Besides, it's not like you _argued_," Charlie pointed out. "You just said you and Lindsay had to study. The rest of us went and…delivered the pumpkins."

"Rotting pumpkins," Jason snickered as they stepped onto the pitch.

"I wish we could see the look on his face," Bess Flatts said wistfully, then shrugged. "But it's better to be free of suspicion than to see the results," the sensible sixth-year keeper concluded.

"Definitely," Jason agreed. "Now, if we're going to beat Slytherin next Saturday, we'd best get to work."

And life went on. As October 31st turned to November 1st, the Wizarding world continued in the same pattern, the same war. People found peace where they could, and fought for it when they could not. Some hid from the terrors that they could not begin to understand, while others sought to corner them, to chase them down and force them to comply. Yet the world continued to turn, because Halloween of 1981 was just like the Halloween of every previous year, and would be no different than those to come. In the end, it was just another day.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I know it's been forever since I updated—I took a gigantic break from fanfiction and obviously this story suffered. I am, however, back in the groove and have completed through chapter 9 of this story and am still moving onwards at a surprising pace! In other news, some of you may recognize portions of this chapter, which came from "Unbroken Eve," a short story I posted some years ago, though this chapter has been updated and expanded to fit with the actual plot of the story. _Stay tuned for Chapter 3: "Promises Discovered," in which the Marauders' world falls apart, and please do review!_


	4. Chapter 3: Promises Discovered

**Chapter Three: Promises Discovered**

* * *

**November 5, 1981**

He'd waited as long as he could before ducking out of the run-down Piper Estates and wandering around the corner to Apparate quickly into Remus' flat and leave a short note. The piece of scrap paper only had an address on it, not even a name or a Muggle "phone number", but Remus would know the handwriting anywhere. The Marauders had copied too many of each other's essays at school for Moony to miss the ugly scrawl that Sirius called his own, and he'd know what it meant.

Moody would have told Sirius that he shouldn't let even Remus and Peter know where he was hiding, but Sirius was _bored._ Peter was out of the country on an errand for the Department of International Magical Cooperation (he'd recently been hired as a junior diplomat and still couldn't believe his luck), but Remus was inevitably around…and Sirius was lonely. He couldn't take the enforced isolation any longer, so he did the only thing he could think of.

Of course, getting back to his flat was the hard part; he'd quietly warded the entire building up against Apparition, so Sirius had to walk back in the Muggle way, which was more than a bit annoying. Still, it would give him a bit of warning in case Death Eaters found him, so taking the long way was worth the trouble—most of the time. He hadn't been spotted this time, and was disguised enough that no one from the Wizarding World should have recognized him even if they did notice, but every trip out was a risk, and Sirius knew it.

_Especially since the failed attack on Alice, Frank, and Neville. Though I'm not exactly going to cry now that Cousin Trixie and the Lestrange boys are in Azkaban. Couldn't have happened to better people._

Reckless to a fault he might have been, Sirius Black was still an Auror and desperately wanted to survive his time as the Potters' Secret Keeper. Just because he _expected _to die didn't mean he wanted to. Even he wasn't so good a liar that he could convince himself that he'd outlast Voldemort's obsession with Harry, but pretending he would—and working towards that end—passed the time.

Slipping back into the building's front door, Sirius paused to wonder briefly where Remus had been. It wasn't _like _Moony to be wandering around on a Thursday morning, not with James and Lily in hiding and Peter out of the country. Was it possible that—

_Stop it, _he told himself firmly_. You're getting up to Alastor's level of paranoia, and that's just stupid. If you can't trust your friends, who can you trust?_

Giving himself a hard shake, Sirius forced his mind away from the topic. By the time Remus arrived an hour later, he was flopped on the couch and resolutely not thinking about betrayal or deception.

* * *

**November 10, 1981**

"You really shouldn't have told me where you are," Remus told him later as they strolled along the top of the Coliseum in Rome. Wizards still called it the Flavian Amphitheatre, just as the Romans had, but Sirius had always thought that "Coliseum" just had a nicer ring to it. "And you _really_ shouldn't be wandering around Rome with me!"

"Oh, come on, Moony. Where else can someone named _Remus _go for fun?" Sirius giggled.

"A place named Remer. Or Reme. Or something clever like that," his friend replied dryly. "Rome is named after _Romulus_, you know. Not Remus."

"Still, the symmetry is nice."

"The symmetry's all in your head!" But Moony laughed, which was harder than ever to achieve these days, so Sirius felt the effort worthwhile.

"Well, there's not much there, so I had to fill it with _something_," he replied with a wicked grin.

"Clearly. As anyone with half a gram of sanity would still be in hiding."

Sirius just grinned. "How long have you known me?"

Remus rolled his eyes at the non sequitur. "Your point?"

"Just answer."

His friend sighed, glancing away to negotiate the two thousand year old stairway. "Ten years, plus a few months."

"And in all that time, have you ever known me to have even a quarter gram of sanity?" Sirius asked, half seriously, even.

"Possibly once," Moony replied thoughtfully. "For about five minutes. Somewhere around the time you fooled the Aurors into letting you in. Or maybe it was during that Transfiguration exam back in second year—"

"You don't mean—"

"Oh, yes!"

They burst out laughing together, even if the story hadn't been that funny. Oh, their prank at the time had been (_all_ of the Marauders pranks had either been funny or spectacular failures, of course), but in retrospect, they'd certainly pulled off ones better than that, even if nothing in later years had _quite _involved that shade of pink-green-and-weird-glowing-brown. But Sirius and Remus needed to release their tension somehow, and Sirius had to get out.

"This is crazy, you know," Remus said after a long moment, seeming suddenly sad and lonely.

"Yeah, but it's nice to get out. Another minute staring at that ugly yellow wallpaper, and I'd have gone completely and thoroughly insane."

The sun was setting, and Sirius' multitude of mobile wards were checking in on schedule. One by one, he ticked them off in his mind, making sure that there were no witches or wizards about—but he never quite noticed the slight glitch in the last one—just a tiny tick of _something_—when Remus interrupted him.

Even if he had noticed the aberration, he'd have probably have written it off. Sirius was enjoying himself too much, and he did not do lonely well.

"You can't do this again, Padfoot. What if you're seen?"

"What if I am?" Sirius countered. "He's got no way of knowing where I'm hiding, only that I'm here in Rome. Or Reme, if you want me to call it that." He grinned.

"Not funny."

"Sure it is. Lighten up, Moony. I've got to live a little, otherwise what are we fighting for?"

"James, Lily, and Harry," was the immediate response, soft and broken.

_Me and my big mouth. Peter's off to parts and countries unknown, James and Lily are sealed away with a Fidelius Charm, and here I am. Making him miserable. _By nature, Sirius wasn't someone who usually felt terribly guilty about anything, but Remus' loneliness was one of the few things that could _hurt._ He knew that his friend had lost yet another job due to his condition, and that Remus was not only struggling to make ends meet—he was still trying to find a way to make a difference a world that did not want his help.

"You want me to come over tomorrow night, mate?"

Remus shook his head. "No, it's far too risky. You can't spend the night out of hiding—and _especially _not with me, so don't you even start—and I'll be fine. I'll just lock myself in the shed, and Dumbledore will check on me in the morning. We've worked it out."

"Are you sure?" he managed to ask around the lump in his throat. Even with the war, even with the different paths the Marauders had taken— Sirius an Auror, James playing Quidditch (then an Auror), and Peter moving constantly from job to job and now traveling all the time—_someone _had always managed to be there for Moony during his transformations. Since the three boys had managed to become Animagi, at least one of them had _always _been there. Never missed a full moon.

Until November 11th, 1981. That would be the first.

Lord only knew how Remus managed to smile.

"Yeah."

* * *

**November 12, 1981**

In the early morning hours following the full moon, a team of fourteen Death Eaters breached his booby traps by hiding behind a Muggle salesman. Sirius was a step slow—he didn't want to kill the poor Muggle—but after he stunned the confused salesman (it was the best of all available options, and he didn't have many, even though doing so wasted valuable time), all hell broke loose.

_Move faster!_ _Speed is survival! _he could almost hear Moody's voice growling at him, and Sirius twisted into his dueling crouch even as a third curse smacked him in the ribcage, making bones break and breathing burn.

"_Everbero! Extundo! Vexameum!" _ Sirius reeled off, sweeping his wand across the room wildly and trying to hit as many of them as he could with one shot.

But there were too many Death Eaters, and even Sirius couldn't fight dirty enough to overcome those kinds of odds—especially not when his opponents were as skilled as these. He couldn't see faces beneath their masks, but he recognized voices and spell choices—

"_Debellum!"_ That had to be Lucius Malfoy. The voice was too pleased for anyone less haughty.

"_Oblitesco!"_ Sirius retorted, managing barely to dodge Malfoy's attempt to knock him unconscious. His ribs were burning, and panting for air only made them hurt more.

"Alarte Ascendare!" Yaxley sounded slightly crazy these days, and he must have been losing it, because only an idiot would have used that spell in combat.

"_Sectumsempra!" _Oh, that was Alecto Carrow. And she'd hit him, too. He was starting to get dizzy enough to be caught up in the details, and his mind wasn't concentrating right, but Sirius was vaguely aware of the fact that his entire torso had been ripped open.

Deep breath. _"Rumperis, Reducto, Everbero!"_ Sirius finally managed to make it into his usual dueling crouch. The first two spells missed; the third one managed to get Yaxley. _"Incendio!"_

_Not so lucky_. Perhaps his aim was failing. Though he did burn a nice hole in the wall next to the door.

"_Venderum!"_ Was that cousin Narcissa? It certainly sounded like her cultured voice, which was a pity, because she'd not always been so nasty. In some ways, she'd been nicer than 'Droma, back when they were kids.

"_Extorqueom!"_ someone shouted.

Oh, that one hurt. Hit hard enough that Sirius couldn't recognize the voice, couldn't focus enough. And it made his irrational urge to giggle even harder to fight back—_"Stupefy!" _he shouted as a way to repress the want-to-be-insane-laughter. _Fourteen of them for little old me? I knew Voldemort was offended by a _Black _going good, but isn't that a bit much for just one Auror?_

He wanted to ask them if outnumbering someone and pounding on them like this was fun (_"Crucio!"_ the Carrow-voice shouted, laughing when he shrieked in pain. Good of her to laugh for him, now that he was too busy screaming), but Sirius just didn't have the focus. Perhaps one or two of the Death Eaters were good enough to beat him in a fair match (or five or six of them, depending upon who owned the voices that didn't bring back childhood memories. Four or five of them wouldn't have been so bad, even—Sirius might have at least had a chance, then.

The current odds, however, told him that Voldemort _knew._ There was no way that simple annoyance with the Black family's notorious white sheep could bring about _this _kind of reception.

"_Rumperis!"_

Something snapped; he thought it was his leg. Had he managed to roll away from the Cruciatus Curse? No—not yet. With an effort, Sirius shoved the pain aside, allowing years of relentless training to rise.

"_Econtra Cruci!"_ Sirius managed.

And then he was moving, rolling, trying not to howl in pain as his left leg smacked into the couch. Twisting his body brutally, he tried to dive behind the offending piece of furniture, hoping to use it as a shield—

"_Reducto!"_ Malfoy cried.

The Blasting Curse shattered the couch into smithereens, sending thousands of tiny chunks bouncing of the ceiling and raining onto Sirius' head.

"_Brevisalvum Mali,"_ he gasped, dodging another curse from Bellatrix and casting a hasty shield to catch half a dozen others. He was going to hate himself in the morning for using the Quick Heal, but he had to live to the morning first—

"_Carnificius!"_ another voice shouted. Was that Cameron Dunston? Sirius hadn't known she'd turned Death Eater.

The spell hit and it knocked the air out of his entire body, making Sirius _wish _he could scream. He'd lost, and he knew it, but he managed to fire off another half dozen spells in quick succession as his legs collapsed out from under him.

His last thought before the world went dark wasn't for himself. Ironically enough, it wasn't even for James or Harry, no matter how heroically appropriate that would have been.

_Please let Remus be late. Please let the obsessively organized, neurotically punctual, "Professor Moony" be running behind schedule for once in his life!_

Fat chance of that. Remus Lupin was due to meet Sirius for lunch, and he was _always _on time. No amount of hoping could change the facts.

Sirius' head hit the floor with a distinctive _crack. _

* * *

Leaving the house at Godric's Hollow was a risk James felt he had to take—Remus' letter had reached the Potters only a few hours before, and James _had _to see Dumbledore. So, he Apparated to Hogsmeade and snuck into Hogwarts via Hog's Head passageway, slipping into Room of Requirement and then heading up to the Headmaster's Office. A bit of judicial use of his old Invisibility Cloak helped him remain unseen; James' skills did the rest. Though he passed a few students as they hurried to class (apparently they cared more about being late than the Marauders ever had), no one noticed him.

Fortunately, the password had not been changed in months—a fact that told James how very distracted Dumbledore was by current events. _And if that doesn't worry you, boy, nothing should. _

The thought made him want to look around for Mad-Eye, the head of the Aurors and Sirius' old mentor…and then the thought of Sirius made his artificially good mood vanish. James had forced himself to focus on the moment, but stepping into Dumbledore's office brought so many memories crashing back—

_Get a hold of yourself, Prongs, or just lock yourself up in the loony bin now. Because if you break down in Dumbledore's office, he'll never let you take part in this._

"I thought you might be coming, James," Dumbledore said quietly.

"Anything?"

Keeping his voice level was impossible; James almost sobbed the word. In response, the headmaster sadly shook his head, looking old and tired. "Alastor headed out there as soon as Remus notified me—and no, James, you may _not _join his team. Alastor has found a few leads, and the Aurors are searching for Sirius even now—"

"But Sirius—"

"You cannot," Dumbledore said more kindly. "If you expose yourself, you turn everything Sirius has done into nothing."

Dumbledore's words were logical. They were even _right_. But Sirius was James' best friend, his _brother, _and he could be in Voldemort's hands even now—James had known the risks, intellectually, but now the danger was real. And Sirius had to be running out of time.

Emotion overflowed.

"I can't just sit still and leave him!" James snapped hotly.

"Except that is exactly what you must do." Slowly, Dumbledore came around his desk and laid his hands on James' shoulders; only then did the Auror feel the tears running down his own face. "There are good people working on this, James. You do Sirius no service if you get caught."

_Then where will Lily and Harry be?_ the headmaster did not ask, but James heard the question all the same. A long moment passed before he could find his voice, and even then he discovered that he could not say his friend's name. He tried to and failed, unable to even whisper out his worry. Image after image assaulted his mind; James could only imagine what Sirius was going through.

"You…you have spies? He finally managed to croak.

"I do. They know nothing, as of yet, but they will tell me when they do," the old wizard replied.

"And a rescue…?" James prompted.

"We will have to see, James. But we will certainly try."

It was the best answer Dumbledore could give him, but even then instinct told them both that it would never be enough.

* * *

**The First Day: November 15, 1981 **

Light intruded. He'd been in the dark for the past seventy-two hours reckoning the time only by the regularity of a clock chiming somewhere beyond the painted walls holding him in. But this would be the first day that mattered. Instinct told him that. _The first day. Day one._

Somehow, he'd expected to be held somewhere more appropriate. Someplace darker. Danker. Colder. Less…normal. Not sitting in a chair on a carpeted floor, inside what his hands told Sirius was a house. His back was flush against the wall, and if he shifted right, he could touch the textured and ancient coats of paint. Flexing his bare toes to feel the plush carpet was easier still, but doing so only made the situation seem more surreal. He'd expected a cell, with classic stone walls and cold floors. Not this.

Wherever he was, it wasn't the dungeons where Voldemort held his usual prisoners. Not the Riddle House. He'd learned about that place on Avalon. _Long ago._

Seemed like a lifetime now, even if he'd visited Alastor there only days before going into hiding. Time crept slower in this place. Not a good sign.

Or maybe it was just that he was horribly dehydrated, so thirsty that he feared his throat might crack and bleed. The last thing he'd had to drink had been a bottle of the mediocre Muggle orange juice he'd been drinking when they came—Sirius was dizzy enough that he couldn't recall the brand name, but it hadn't tasted very good. Another bad sign. Aurors studied the inescapable limitations of the human body in detail, and Sirius was in over his head.

And yet someone had healed him. They'd not taken the time to give him food or water, but they'd done a halfway decent job of patching up his busted ribs and broken left leg. Why bother with that? It didn't make sense. You didn't remember to patch the prisoner up and then forget to feed him.

_Light._

The unexpected brightness made him blink. He'd started to wonder idly if their plan was to starve him into submission (which would not work but was likely to prove unpleasant). If so, they were moving along quite nicely in that direction.

Not they. That wasn't a _they _standing in the doorway.

Voldemort.

* * *

**Author's Note**: _Stay tuned for Chapter 4: "The Beginning," in which Sirius finds that he is truly in over his head._As always, feedback is food for us hungry authors, so please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 4: The Beginning

**Chapter Four: The Beginning**

* * *

**The First Day: November 15, 1981 **

His heart flipped over in his chest, constricting painfully. He'd never actually _seen _the Dark Lord in person, but any child could have recognized the slender silhouette framed in the doorway, even without being able to see the telltale red eyes. His image was burned into the collective memory of the Wizarding World. No one forgot.

Perhaps two minutes passed before either of them spoke, and Sirius was determined that it wouldn't be him.

"Sirius Black," the high-pitched voice said contemplatively. "Son and heir to the first family of the Fourteen. Distinguished Hogwarts graduate and celebrated Auror, despite many overtures from my devoted followers."

Red eyes focused on him, and Sirius fought the urge to flinch.

"I will give you one chance to become something other than my enemy. To become something _better_." The Dark Lord hissed softly on the final word, and despite his resolve, Sirius flinched. "For if you give me the information I require, I will admit you to the ranks of my Death Eaters as an honored and trusted companion."

His mouth suddenly dry, Sirius swallowed. His voice came out in a croak. "You want me to betray my friends."

"I require the Potters' location," Voldemort replied. "What type of betrayal you childishly classify that as is not my concern."

"So, what you're saying is that you'll offer me a place of trust only if I prove that my friends can't trust me," Sirius retorted, feeling his heart hammering its way up his throat. "And that you find such loyalty childish. Funny, since I hear you demand it from your followers."

He tried to grin, and it sort of worked.

On second thought, maybe he'd just grimaced, because as an Auror he knew what had to be coming.

Voldemort did not disappoint. _"Crucio!"_

Pain engulfed his body, and Sirius screamed. He'd been hit by the torture curse before, both on missions and in training—but this was far worse. Every moment stretched by and seemed to last an eternity; every nerve ending in his body was on fire and he felt like his head was going to explode. Everything _hurt_.

He had no idea how many minutes passed before Voldemort released him from the curse.

"My kind offer has now been withdrawn. Answer immediately and you will be _permitted_ to enter my followers' ranks, though you will receive no preferential treatment."

"No."

Sirius hadn't been aware of speaking until the word came out.

"_Crucio."_

Not a shout this time, but the curse seemed stronger. Somewhere in the middle of the pain, Sirius started tasting blood in his throat, and he wasn't sure if he'd simply screamed his throat raw or the Cruciatus Curse had torn something open. Either was possible.

Blackness cascaded in on the edges of his vision and the world began to spin; Voldemort quickly turned into a gray and red and black blur of blobby nothingess that whirled through the air in front of Sirius' face. Finally, the curse stopped—but Voldemort's image kept dancing, bringing memories of one of the Marauders best pranks to mind—a jinxed Lucius Malfoy dancing in a pink tutu wearing purple and gold ribbons in his hair looked next to nothing like Voldemort dressed in blacks and grays, but the whirling image jiggled just right—

Unable to help himself, Sirius started laughing.

* * *

**The Second Day: November 17, 1981 **

Julia Malfoy had moved out of Malfoy Manor the moment her brother had married—hardly a heartbreaking adjustment since their parents had died in the midst of her Hogwarts education. Malfoy Manor had ceased to be "home" once they died, and she now lived in a luxurious flat on the outskirts of London in a semi-magical community that had housed the offspring of many old families over the years. Her flat had been owned by the Malfoy family for more than a century, and she wasn't the first "spare" child of her family to live there after the heir had inherited the manor.

Not that she spent much time there, sinfully luxurious surroundings or not. Julia vastly preferred to wander the world and explore magical legends and archeological finds. Hers was a lifestyle requiring either fantastic riches or museum sponsors, but after her initial finds, Julia possessed both. Already known as the witch who could find anything, Julia's schedule kept her interested and far from home, just what she preferred.

But a message like this one would always bring her back.

_I must see you immediately.  
__- R. J. Lupin_

The signature was scrawled, but she could read it, and her heart hammered into her throat immediately. Something was wrong.

Her hands wanted to shake. Julia wasn't prone to sudden bouts of nervousness, and she wasn't likely to imagine trouble, but—

Biting her lip, she forced her racing heart to slow down. _I'm sure it's nothing. Absolutely nothing. He's got a message from Sirius, I'm sure._ But she sent a reply immediately, just in case.

Remus Lupin knocked on her door less than three minutes later, which in itself signified trouble of the sort she desperately wanted to wish away. Although acquainted with Sirius' three best friends, none of the so-called Marauders were precisely the type of man she'd grown up befriending or had spent time with at Hogwarts. The Malfoys were Slytherins through and through, and Julia was no exception. She was _proud _of her heritage and always would be. The Muggle-friendly and eccentric Potters had never been friendly with her family, and Lupin or Pettigrew blood simply wasn't good enough to notice. Truth be told, she'd probably never have given Sirius a second look had he not been the Black heir—at least not back in her Hogwarts days.

Nowadays she was a bit more open minded, but not enough to socialize with her lover's friends on her own. She respected—and even _liked_ (though it was still a surprising feeling) James, Peter, and Remus, but Julia had never and would never seek their company out.

Opening the door with wand in hand—she _was _a Death Eater's sister, even if she wasn't one herself, and had been investigated no less than four times by the idiot Crouch at the Ministry—she was half surprised to see Remus alone.

_No Peter? This is a change. Usually they travel in pairs, at least—_

Remus' tight expression cut the amusement straight out of her mind. His features were pale and wan when she opened the door, so Julia stepped aside immediately to let him in. Halfblooded werewolf though he was (the later being a secret Lucius had dropped on her a year ago when trying to scare his little sister away from the increasingly _good _Black heir and his dangerous friends), Julia had never been able to help trusting Remus Lupin. He'd always been a sweet one, even at school. She _liked _him, no matter what he was.

"Hello Julia," he said hoarsely as the door clicked shut.

His eyes were bloodshot and shadows darkened the skin underneath them; clearly, Remus had not slept in days. A long moment passed before Julia could find her voice.

"What happened?" she finally asked around the lump in her throat.

_Don't tell me! _She wanted to scream. If he didn't tell her, then she didn't know, and nothing had happened.

Remus, however, did not hear the unspoken plea. He closed his eyes before whispering: "Sirius is gone."

The world stopped spinning.

"Gone?" she heard her voice repeat.

Sirius was gone. She heard Remus' reply come from a distance; Julia hardly registered the words. Sirius was _gone_. Not dead. Remus would have said so. Gone. Captured. _Taken_. She'd known that he'd gone into hiding, but it was _Sirius_. He knew how to take care of himself. Not once had she imagined that everything might not turn out for the best.

She wanted to cry, but would not grant herself that respite. She'd chosen this road, and now she had to walk it. She was a _Malfoy_, and she'd cry later, once Remus was gone.

Without warning, a sob rose in her throat. She pushed it down.

_Later_.

"It's the Dark Lord, isn't it?"

If Remus disliked her choice of name for Lord Voldemort, he was too distraught to show it.

"Yes," he answered brokenly. "I don't think he told you…but Sirius was James' Secret Keeper. They went into hiding—well, why isn't important. But Sirius—Sirius—"

He sucked in a deep breath, almost sobbing himself. Julia swallowed.

"Why don't you come in and sit down?" she asked quietly.

_Sirius is gone_.

The words kept running through her mind.

_Sirius is gone._

"No, thanks, I mean…there's not time. I'm helping look for him, since Peter's away and James can't. I just…thought you should know. That he'd want you to."

She nodded mechanically. "Do you know anything else?"

"Not really. His flat was a mess. There was a battle. We don't think he died, but…well, you know how it goes."

Julia closed her eyes, trying not to let her imagination run wild.

"Yeah, I do."

* * *

**The Third Day: November 18, 1981 **

The hydration replacement charm hit Sirius hard enough to make him gasp. The spell was a standard enough incantation for Aurors, and he recognized it right away, but he'd hardly expected to be smacked by it here and now. _Bad sign. That means they're too busy torturing me to feed me or give me water_. Sirius sucked in a deep breath, glad to be lucid for the moment. Over the last however long it had been—there were no windows so he had no idea what time of day it was or how much time had passed—there had been too few lucid moments. In most of them, he'd started to wonder if the Death Eaters were simply going to torture him until he gave in or died, with no preference on which came first.

_Best throw away _those _expectations, Padfoot_, he told himself, surprised at how analytical he still was. Training told him that he should have been scared out of his wits and babbling by now.

Which didn't mean he wasn't terrified, of course. He just wasn't babbling.

_Focus, Sirius. They've stopped cursing you, which means something's up._

With an effort, he forced his eyes open, blinking to clear the blood out of his vision. How long _had _it been? He couldn't recall how that blood got in his eyes, on his face. But he tasted it, too, dry and salty and sharp. _Focus. _He was still chained to the same metal chair, with his arms wrenched behind its back. The room was spinning like a Muggle tilt-a-whirl. He'd always loved those rides.

Not once had he actually thought he'd be in this position. Not really. Oh, he'd spoken bravely and said all the right words. He'd meant them, too. But Sirius shad never expected _this_. He wanted to swallow, but knew that if he did so, it would be a display of fear the Death Eaters would take advantage of. What was it that Moody always said about betraying your own weaknesses?

The Aurors taught several lessons about moments like these. Sirius just couldn't remember a damn thing the instructors had said to do…and he had a feeling that not a word of it would help at the moment, anyway. Someone who'd never lived through torture telling you how to face it was meaningless advice. Pure drivel.

"Did I mention," the cold voice said to him, making Sirius jump as much as he could in the chains, "that you are a guest here at Casa Serpente, a place very few of my enemies even dream exists?"

"I'm honored," Sirius croaked, trying to smile sarcastically, and bracing himself for the curse he knew would come.

_When did he get in here? He wasn't here before! _He could deal with Malfoy or the others—they were simply Death Eaters, and he wasn't afraid of them. He'd been fighting them for years. But Voldemort was another matter.

His Cruciatus Curse hurt a lot more, too.

"You should be," the Dark Lord said softly.

Sirius tried to think of something obnoxious to say, but failed. He could only watch the tall wizard silently, surprised at how quickly his dizziness was fading.

"You have held up remarkably well," Voldemort continued after a moment. "Most men would be begging by now."

_That _he could respond to. Sirius smiled. "I've never been real good at doing what people want me to."

"Much to the chagrin of your parents, I know."

Heartbeat.

"_Crucio."_

Pain exploded. He'd been taught about this, too, and surviving the torture curse had not been a theoretical lesson. Sirius had even been hit in combat—rather often, as his relatives always seemed to feel the need to target him—but not like this. Nothing could prepare him for the sheer power driving his muscles to spasm and his throat to scream itself bloody. However, Voldemort removed the curse after only a moment, just when white was beginning to take over his vision.

"Had you been a bit more loyal son of such a noble family, we would not need to be here now," the other explained softly.

Sirius' only answer was to cough up blood. It wasn't the first time, but now his throat was on fire.

"Ahriman have control of your tongue?"

Somehow, the oft-used phrase was not nearly so amusing when uttered by a Dark Lord who'd become even more dangerous than the one still used to frighten children a thousand years later. Even more strangely, the silky words did not sound surreal coming out of Voldemort's mouth—they were just frightening, and Sirius shuddered despite himself.

"No," he finally managed, mouth bone-dry with terror.

"Good." A smile creased the pale face. This close, Voldemort looked younger than the Ministry probably wanted him to appear. Solid. Impenetrable. Unbeatable.

Sirius swallowed again, trying to banish his fear.

"Doesn't mean you'll get much more than silence from me." He smiled as cockily as he could. "Voldemort."

He'd never dared use the name before, and now he braced himself for pain. So far as he knew, _no one _dared. Not to his face.

Red eyes flashed, but the wand stayed down.

"They all say that. At first," was the surprisingly tranquil reply.

"I mean it," Sirius responded tightly.

"So do they all."

_How _did _he make his eyes red, anyway? _Glaring into them was hard, but Sirius managed. Barely.

"I won't betray my friends."

His captor laughed. "Won't you?"

"No!"

Not ever. Not even a little. Not once. Not James, not Remus, and not Peter. Not any of them. He'd die first.

But Voldemort only smiled at the passion in his voice. Thinking dispassionately, Sirius supposed that he'd heard such declarations before. _I'm going to be different_, he swore to himself. _I won't give in, and I won't break. And I'll make this red-eyed bastard miserable for going after my best friend, even if I can only annoy him to death._

"So, you do not deny that you are the Potters' Secret Keeper?" The smile was triumphant.

"No point in lying when you already know the truth," Sirius shot back.

Voldemort chuckled, and the cold laugh sent a chill down Sirius' spine. "Then there's hardly a point in false bravado, is there?"

"I won't break." He probably shouldn't have said that out loud, but Sirius was never good at keeping his thoughts internal. "Do your worst."

"Oh, I shall. And I look forward to the challenge, Sirius Black."

* * *

"I'm afraid it's no use, James," Albus Dumbledore said quietly. "There has been no sign."

"What about your spies?" he whispered. He'd asked the same thing four days ago, and got almost the same answer.

"All they know is that he was taken to Voldemort," the Headmaster replied, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. James knew he was shaking, but he did not care. Sirius was gone… Sirius had been missing for five days.

"What else aren't you saying?" he asked, half-hating the accusing tone of his own voice, but not wanting to be lied to. He didn't want to be protected. He wanted to know the truth.

Dumbledore sighed. "They know he was tortured. They do not know if he has died yet."

_Yet._ James tried to choke back a sob. It didn't work. _Sirius…_ He'd come to Dumbledore for reassurance, for hope, yet he had only found despair. Even Dumbledore thought that Sirius would die. Even _Albus Dumbledore_, the one wizard that Voldemort feared, thought there was no chance! Where was the justice in that? Why had he sent a friend to die? Suddenly, he cried, "We have to do _something_!"

"Like what, James?" Dumbledore's gentle voice asked him. "You have a family and a bloodline to protect. Remus and Peter have become targets as well, and the Ministry is too overwrought by attempting counter known threats to search for one missing Auror. There is hardly anything left with which to fight the war, now." His other hand reached James' shoulder. "I am truly, truly sorry, my friend, but there is nothing we can do.

"All we can do is hope for it to end."

* * *

**Author's Note**: _Stay tuned for Chapter 5: "Loyalty and Pain," in which Moody swears, Remus sees some action (of the battle type), and Snape steals from Voldemort._One last note—this is me, begging for reviews. Please take a moment and encourage me to update faster!


	6. Chapter 5: Loyalty and Pain

**Chapter Five: Loyalty and Pain**

* * *

**The Fifth Day: November 20, 1981 **

Hands lifted him, and Sirius cried out. He'd been…he'd been…he couldn't remember, but it had been much more comfortable than wherever he was going. The sudden _tug _dragged the air right out of his chest, and before Sirius could object, he was Apparating away.

_Thud._

He hit the floor hard, gasping for air. Side-Along Apparition was never fun, especially when you weren't expecting to go anywhere. Long moments passed before he managed to force his breathing to even out, and then he became aware of laughter.

Blinking rapidly made the world slide into focus. He was face down on a silver and green rug he had seen in photographs, had seen somewhere… Groaning, Sirius forced his head to turn to the left, inch by inch. His neck creaked in protest.

Those were feet. Many, many feet, and the legs they were attached to were connected to bodies wearing Death Eater robes.

Dizzily, Sirius raised his eyes to meet those of his cousin, Narcissa Malfoy.

_I am so screwed._

* * *

He was tired of pretending that he _liked _it. So tired of it all.

Still, Snape stepped up to join the laughing circle of his fellows, offering a graceful half-bow when Lucius Malfoy moved aside to clear room for him. Nott, to Lucius' right, shot a glare Snape's way, but he ignored the fool.

"That's enough, ladies and gentlemen," Lucius said, calling off Madley's Cruciatus Curse. "Let's give Severus a chance to play."

Narcissa Malfoy led the laughter, but Snape smiled courteously.

"Thank you, Lucius," he replied with just the right amount of gratitude in his voice.

He smiled for his friend, appearing the poised and comfortable Death Eater they all assumed he was. After all, Severus Snape had risen with surprising swiftness; only three and a half years out of Hogwarts, he was already one of the Dark Lord's favorites. His elders may have resented his position—and most of them did—but they were too wary of the favor their Lord showed him to object. Being friends with Lucius Malfoy certainly did him no harm, either, though the others clearly resented the way Lucius halted their _play _in order to give Severus a go.

He could no longer avoid looking at the bound man the Death Eaters surrounded, though he could try to pretend that he did not care why the Auror was there.

_Don't you dare break, Black._

Face expressionless, he raised his wand. The curse came out as a whisper, soft and satisfied:

"_Crucio."_

At his feet, Black screamed and writhed, though he quieted quickly. He was clearly too exhausted to do much more than gasp in pain after just a few moments; Severus could see from the angle of his shoulders and his right leg that more than a few bones were broken. The Auror's clothes—those weren't robes, so what _was _he wearing?—were torn and bloodied as well, and though Snape was no healer, he could tell that the injuries were more than slightly serious.

He flicked his wand aside just before Black passed out, leaving the other panting and shaking. Calmly, Severus turned to face Lucius.

"It appears that I have missed much of the evening's entertainment," he said mildly.

Lucius laughed. "He was a…special acquaintance of yours at Hogwarts, wasn't he?"

"Special is not precisely the word I would choose, Lucius," he replied dryly.

"Well, you should be happy to see him suffering, at least," the other shrugged.

"I'll be happy when he's _dead_," Severus snapped.

"Now, now, Severus. I know you hate him, but he _is _the Dark Lord's prisoner," Narcissa Malfoy put in with a smile, slipping between Snape and her husband and leaning lightly on his arm. She did not have to say the rest—every Death Eater knew what _that _meant.

But Severus was hardly paying mind to old grudges, now, even if the teenager he'd been would be more than a bit happy to see Black bleed to death there and now.

"_Restituosanguim." _The younger Crouch waved his wand at Black, casting the blood replacement spell with ease. So much for that hope.

Black coughed and seemed to be coming closer to awareness.

_Hurry up and die, you bastard, _Severus thought behind a dispassionate mask. _If you die, Lily stays safe._

"And I will do nothing to hasten his demise," he said to Narcissa in an aloof tone. "Unless, of course, our Lord requires it." And then he smiled, though the expression lasted only a moment.

"Well, well…" Black coughed again, but his blue eyes were focused on Severus. "It's Snivellus, come out to play with his Master's new toy."

"_Crucio!"_

The word came out before he could stop himself, and Black's body arched off the floor, coming down with a sickening crunch. Narcissa jumped back, as no sane witch wished to be in such close contact with the caster of an Unforgivable; doing so was more than uncomfortable, particularly when so much emotion was feeding the curse. The still-dispassionate corner of Severus' mind reported that that was _foolish_, and he ought to stop—but he was angry, now, and Black had always been an idiot.

"Severus," Lucius hissed, but he held the curse.

If anyone deserved this, Black did.

"_Severus!"_

With an effort, he yanked his wand aside, shaking his head to regain his self control.

"Fool," he hissed in Black's direction, noticing that the Auror was already gasping his way back into coherency.

_Why won't you just _die_?_

"One might say that about you," his friend said softly. "Our Lord approaches."

He felt a flash of gratitude towards Lucius as he nodded, stepping back and bowing low to clear the way for Lord Voldemort. _At least no one is going to worry about my loyalties when an Auror can get under my skin like that. Small blessings._ He owed Narcissa an apology.

Red eyes burned into him for a moment, and Severus carefully kept his own gaze on the floor. Long seconds passed before the high voice said:

"Continue."

From Nott's left, Crouch stepped forward, eager as always to please his Master. He was also an expert torturer, Severus knew—such skills came from spending so much time around the Lestranges—and, worse yet, intelligent and skilled enough to bend his creative mind into his spell casting. Sure enough, Crouch started with a complicated and difficult curse:

"_Sanufracta," _he whispered.

Severus fought the urge to grimace; even he had only used the 'Soul Shatterer' once. Although the curse did exactly what it was designed to do, leaving the victim empty and without hope, shaken and in constant pain, enough of its effects rebounded on the caster no matter how careful one was. Dark Magic was often like that; though mastery of the spells could mitigate the consequences in many cases, the Soul Shatterer was not one of those spells. Crouch, however, seemed to bear the unpleasantries like a badge of honor, grinning as Black writhed and struggled to push the curse aside.

He managed eventually—which in itself was impressive; Severus had not realized Black had learned his lessons quite that well—but not before Yaxley hit him with a Cruciatus Curse.

The combination of the two curses was nasty, but Severus paid little attention to the man suffering on the floor. Black was not his concern—but _Lily _was. Bile rose in Severus' throat as his worry for his childhood friend heightened. Black was going to break if he didn't die soon—there was no avoiding either, but Severus sincerely hoped that the latter preceded the former—else Lily would be in danger. Again.

She'd never know how much he'd sacrificed to keep her safe, and Severus preferred it that way. He'd done enough damage to their friendship through his own foolishness—in the end, he'd driven her straight into James Potter's arms, straight into danger. From a certain point of view, he was at least partially responsible for the fact that Voldemort wanted her dead…and he would do everything he could to save her. _Hurry up and die, Black, _he thought again, and for once the thought was entirely unmotivated by his own hatreds.

Lucius and the others were laughing.

Black was trying to scream.

The Death Eaters were having an informal contest now, to see who could be the most creative and perverse in their torture methods. Everyone was mindful of their Lord's silent gaze upon them, and even Severus joined in when his turn arrived again. After all, Black was as good as dead, so what did it matter?

* * *

Step. _Thump. _Step. _Thump. _Step—

_THUMP._

Growling audibly, Alastor Moody stomped to a halt in front of the polished wooden desk, glaring down at the immaculately groomed head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—Moody's own boss, seeing as how Alastor was the chief of the Auror division.

"Give me a moment, please," Crouch Senior said without looking up.

Nevermind that Alastor had just bullied his way past the man's assistant; Crouch was engrossed in work and probably had no idea who'd just walked up, no matter how loudly Moody had been thumping his wooden leg.

"No," he growled.

At least his voice finally made the Minister look up.

"Ah. Mister Moody. I am in the middle of reviewing some records for Azkaban—records _you _sent me, I believe—so if you would kindly see my assistant, he can provide you with a better time we can meet. Assuming, of course, that this cannot wait for our weekly meeting on Tuesday?"

"No. It can't." Had he a little less self control, Alastor would have hexed the man then and there, but even he might get in trouble for that one.

"Well, then, if you'll see my assistant—"

"No, I will not. This had gone quite far enough, Minister."

Crouch sighed and looked up at him. "What has this time?"

"Black. And Voldemort. We're leaving one of our own in that monster's hands, and we're not doing a damned thing to save him," Moody ground out, managing—just barely—to keep his voice level.

"I'm touched by your concern for your former student, Mister Moody, but may I remind you that Black was _not _engaged in Ministry-sanctioned activities at the time of his capture?" was the reply.

"Horseshit!"

The bellow made Crouch jump; Alastor could have sworn his mustache ended up crooked from the motion. "I beg your pardon!"

Always polite, Barty Crouch, even when he was now standing and glaring back at his principle subordinate.

"I said horseshit," Alastor repeated more calmly. "He was doing what needed to be done, as you and I well know. We've got reports that he was at the Riddle House, and if we hit _tonight_, we might just have a prayer's chance in the dark of grabbing him back. If we don't—"

"If you _fail_," Crouch cut him off, "you'll get even more Aurors killed, and I can't authorize a suicide mission, because that's what this will be."

"And if we don't try, we're no better than Voldemort," Moody snarled.

"Don't even think about saying that where the younger Aurors can hear you," his boss snapped.

"If they hear me, they'll know I'm right!" Moody roared. He'd had enough of this. Enough of politics and enough of fear; Crouch was no coward, and he was certainly cold-blooded enough for the job, but his obsession with acting in accordance with policy had gone too far. "There's no use in fighting a war if you can't protect your own!"

"Fine. Come up with a plan that will _work_ and I will approve it. But not before then." Crouch sat down again and began rearranging the papers on his desk. "Now get out of my office or start interviewing for new jobs, Moody."

"Then fire me."

_THUMP. _He slammed the wooden leg into the floor for emphasis.

"Don't think I won't. I've been burning to for years," Crouch retorted.

"Fine. If that's what you want to do, I can't wait to see how long you last before—"

"Alastor!" a second voice intervened, and there were hands on his arm, hauling him back. He spun, wand in hand, only to find Arabella Figg facing him down with a snarl of her own. "Put that thing away before you take someone's eye out!" his own deputy snapped at him.

The curse he'd been about to utter died on his lips. 'Bella would hex him into the next year, anyway—she had the drop on him, and with 'Bella Figg, that was always a recipe for disaster. He opened his mouth to say something else to Crouch, but she skewered him with a glare before he could speak.

"We'll be back with that plan, _Minister,_" she said to their department head. "And don't you think about firing anyone in the meantime. The Aurors' reaction wouldn't be…pleasant."

"Are you threatening me?" Crouch demanded in that same bored tone.

"I don't think I need to," Arabella retorted, and then walked out.

Step, _thump_.

* * *

**The Sixth Day: November 21, 1981 **

Remus knew that it was stupid, knew _he _was stupid, but Peter was out of the country (again) and he was so damn lonely. It was only ice cream, after all, and he just wanted to stop feeling sorry for himself. He had a bit of money leftover from his last job (before he lost it), and for once Remus was going to treat himself.

It worked for about five minutes.

Then the world heaved out from under him and the children he'd been watching eat treats at Florean Fortescue's were screaming and running, and Remus was on his back in dirt where cobblestones had been, his sensitive ears ringing. Dust threatened to choke him, but his vision cleared surprisingly fast.

Shadows moving through the dust cloud. He couldn't see _who _they were—or what they were, for that matter—but Remus had to assume that anyone moving with that confidence was a bad guy. All of his fellow patrons were still too busy screaming and running away (or lying on the ground like him) to move in a synchronized manner, with wands out and ready.

Acting on instinct, Remus rolled wildly to the right, knocking the table he'd been sitting at over. It fell across his legs, and he yelped in surprise, twisting himself into a ball to keep the sharp edge from digging harder into the backs of his knees. _I didn't think—_Remus felt his eyes grow wide as the other half of the table came crashing down, missing his face by mere inches.

The table saved his life.

"_Reducto!" _some voice shouted, and the table just next to his exploded.

Remus gaped, watching as shattered wood jumped into the air and floated towards the ground in slow motion. Pieces of the table were actually burning, which meant, his academically-inclined mind informed him, that the caster had poured an extremely excessive amount of power into that curse.

_Death Eaters, then_, he managed to think calmly enough. Only Death Eaters would showboat like that.

"_Crucio!" _the same voice shouted, and someone screamed from not far away.

_Definitely Death Eaters. _His inner voice sounded a lot like Sirius, and Remus' heart clenched in pain. _Now get moving, Moony! Stay still and you're dead!_

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ Was that Severus Snape's voice?

Scream.

_Crash_.

Time sped up.

Remus scrambled into a crouch and poked his head up from behind his table; masked Death Eaters were laughing and pointing at the fleeing patrons, which meant they thought they had time to spare—and _the Dark Mark was already high in the sky. _That meant they thought they'd already hit their target, because the Mark _never _went up before the mission was complete. But Remus tore his eyes away from the Dark Mark and forced himself to study his enemy.

_I have to do something._

There were still innocent people trying to flee, many of whom were being cursed in the back as they ran away. Another group tried to shelter against the ice cream parlor itself, hoping that if they did not move, they wouldn't be noticed.

_Think, Moony, think! Do something fast or die faster._

He could Apparate out, of course. But the thought never occurred to Remus except in passing, and it was thrown aside just as quickly.

Four Death Eaters against one wizard. Bad odds.

Time to even them a bit, then.

"_Stupefy," _Remus whispered. Some people thought that greater volume equated to greater power in a spell, but he knew better. The man next to Snape was closest to Remus, and he went down in a hurry once the red jet of power struck him high in the chest.

Snape spun with inhuman speed. _"Crucio!"_

There was no time to move.

Screaming, Remus collapsed back behind the table. Had Snape recognized him? The pain from that curse seemed to indicate that he hadn't forgotten old grudges.

Belatedly, Remus realized that the table had saved him again, blocking the Death Eaters' view of his body and cutting off the curse. But that wouldn't last long if he didn't get moving—

Rolling right, Remus left the shelter of his old table and rolled over the remnants of the one the Death Eaters had destroyed. He came up fast, running towards the enemy, his wand up and curses flying.

"_Incendio!" _The pillar next to Snape exploded into fire, and his old classmate was only just fast enough to Apparate aside before he was enveloped by the flames.

"_Reducto!" _This spell hit the third Death Eater right in the face; when he screamed in pain, Remus thought it might have been with Walden Macnair's voice.

"_Stupef—"_

"_Everbero!" _Snape's voice cut him off, now coming from somewhere to his left. The curse struck and Remus cried out, feeling his feet leave the ground—

And then his back slammed into the side of Fortescue's, and he saw stars.

Gasping for air, blinking the dust and the blood—_blood?_—out of his eyes, Remus came to after only a second or two. Fortunately, Snape's curse had sent him flying far enough that he had a few moments to adjust, though the two standing Death Eaters were striding towards him purposefully.

Snape was in the lead and Remus could not recognize the other one, but they were just close enough if he acted quickly.

"_Demergos!"_ he shouted, not even bothering to stand up. Being slumped against the building was much more comfortable—_What _is _that in my eyes?_

Something goopy was trying to obscure his vision, but Remus saw his spell strike the ground right in front of Snape, and suddenly the two Death Eaters were being sucked into the ground with the rapidness only a Quicksand Charm could cause.

_Crack_. _Pop._

_Crack._

Snape had Apparated out first, and then reappeared next to the unconscious Death Eater, dragging him away into a second Apparition. The second Death Eater and Macnair disappeared almost as rapidly, leaving Remus sprawled in a half-sitting position and staring dizzily at the growing hole in the ground.

"_Finite Incantatem," _Dumbledore's voice said right before he passed out.

* * *

"It's your fault," Crouch snapped as he and Snape walked down the long drive leading away from the Riddle House.

The other Death Eater arched an eyebrow. "And how is that?"

"_You _should have known that the werewolf had better reflexes than we thought. _You _went to school with him."

"_I _was hardly in his circle of special friends," Severus retorted irritably. The young pup was certainly one of Voldemort's favorites despite his recent graduation—Crouch Junior was only nineteen, but even Snape could not deny he was a brilliant wizard. He was perhaps the most talented follower of the Dark Lord, including Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape, and that meant his complaints would be listened to.

Crouch glared. "You should still have known. Had you _thought _about it, we would have the Dark Lord's prize, and he would have rewarded us."

Severus snorted. "Instead of punishing us, of course."

"I am not accustomed to _failure_," the other spat.

"Nor am I." He had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Had he postured so much at that age?

He sincerely hoped not. Severus, however, was certain that he'd governed his tongue better than Crouch ever would, because the boy showed his age all too clearly with the next question:

"Why does he want Lupin, anyway?" the younger Death Eater asked curiously. "If the werewolf is too foolish to serve him, we have plenty others of his kind on our side. What's one more?"

"He was friends with Potter and Black at Hogwarts." And with Pettigrew, but since when did anyone bother mentioning him?

"So?"

This time Severus did sigh. Though he did manage not to roll his eyes in frustration.

"Our Lord wants Potter. He also wants to break Black. Acquiring Lupin would assist with either of those goals. Probably both," Severus explained.

"Black hasn't broken yet?" Crouch asked incredulously.

"If he had, Potter would be dead," he replied flatly. _And so would Lily._

"It's been six days. _No one _lasts six days."

"I know."

_He's a stubborn one. I have to give him that._

* * *

**Author's Note**: Sorry for the delay when my muse refused to cooperate last week—this story is getting more complicated by the day, and I had to untangle a few conflicting threads. That said, I've punched out ten pages today alone, so stay tuned for _Chapter Six_: _"I Will Do It Myself,"_in which Snape's thievery _actually_happens, the Aurors go to war, and Voldemort gets angry. As always, please do let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 6: I Will Do It Myself

**Chapter Six: "I Will Do It Myself"**

* * *

**The Seventh Day: November 22, 1981 **

Remus woke up sometime shortly before dawn with Dumbledore napping by his bedside. Blinking and looking around, he realized with surprise that he was at Hogwarts—had he woken anywhere, he would have expected it to be in St. Mungo's. _Or at the Riddle House, but let's not think about that possibility, Moony._

Guilt welled up with the thought.

_I'd see Sirius again there. They say he's still alive…and that means he's there._ Remus swallowed hard.

"Ah! Good morning," his old headmaster said cheerfully, making Remus jump guiltily.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up," he said softly.

"Hardly a problem, my dear boy. I was simply resting my eyes."

The twinkle in those blue eyes made the tension ease out of Remus' bones, and he chuckled despite himself, then caught the laughter in his throat. His chest still hurt, though not quite so much as he'd expected it to.

"You brought me to Hogwarts."

"That I did," Dumbledore replied with a smile.

Remus blinked. "Why?"

"Because you might have been rather less banged up had I shown up as soon as I intended to," the old wizard replied seriously.

"You…?"

"Of course, Remus. As soon as heard that there was a brown-haired, sad-looking wizard being attacked in Diagon Alley, I guessed it was you. So, I came as soon as I could."

"Oh. Thank you." He hadn't thought that the battle was that long—Dumbledore must have heard quickly indeed if he'd been able to get to somewhere from which he could Apparate away from Hogwarts, like Hogsmeade, and still reach Remus in time. "Did you…chase them away?"

"Oh, no." The twinkle was back in Dumbledore's eyes. "You did that by yourself, Remus. You hardly needed my help. All I did was transport you back here and plug the hole your Quicksand Charm created. The Aurors arrived right after I did. I believe Alastor Moody was much impressed."

Remus smiled sheepishly at the thought of his Quicksand Charm wreaking havoc in Diagon Alley. "Thanks. And thank Madam Pomfrey for me, too. I should be hurting a lot more than I am."

"It's Poppy now, Remus," the matron interrupted them; he hadn't noticed her standing off to the side, but there she was. "You're not a student any more, you know, and you're welcome."

He managed another smile. "Thanks, then…Poppy."

She smiled in return, patting his hand, but Remus looked back at Dumbledore.

"They were targeting me, weren't they?"

The headmaster took a deep breath. "Yes. I believe they were."

* * *

By the time they were done with the plan—and had won Crouch's grudging approval—it was too late, and Alastor knew it.

Even then, the spectacular battle outside the Riddle House should have made him feel better—they'd captured one Death Eater and killed two others, and on any other day, that would have been a good haul. A great haul, even; it was better than the Aurors had done in weeks, and the media would love him for it.

Of course, they'd never manage to hold the Riddle House after this raid, and Moody wasn't going to bother to try. He'd only waste Aurors in a pointless battle; frankly, he was surprised they'd managed to take as much ground as they had. But 'Bella Figg and Ernie Jordan had come up with a brilliant plan that had caught the Death Eaters flat-footed, and Moody had pushed hard once the Aurors acquired the slightest advantage. The first few minutes of the raid had produced surprisingly few casualties —though Alice Longbottom was down for the count, Ernie had already Apparated her out of there, and they were the only seriously injured Aurors in the bunch.

On another day, he'd have tried to blow the place, but even after their amazingly easy breech, he didn't hold the entire house. Death Eaters were pouring into the south end, and though the Aurors had managed to get into the dungeons and ensure they were clear (Moody had checked himself), they'd soon be outnumbered.

It was too easy. Too easy for a battle.

Alastor snarled aloud, making Virginia Wilson jump.

_Damn it all to hell. I'm almost certain they knew we were coming. This is a trap, and we've been betrayed._

They'd found two other Aurors' dead bodies, but there was no sign of Sirius. The bright side was that they'd already known that Jenkins was dead—he'd been taken two days before. But Meadowes simply hadn't shown up for work that morning, and Moody assumed that the pair he'd sent looking for her were dead now, too, since they hadn't checked back in before the start of the mission. But there was no evidence of Sirius. None whatsoever, unless Alastor wanted to count the fresh bloodstain on the living room carpet.

"He's playing with me," he growled at 'Bella, who'd insisted on coming along for some reason or another. Probably because she thought he'd do something destructive.

She'd clearly come to the same conclusion. "Damn them all to hell. You're right."

He hadn't felt like such a failure since his rookie year.

"Let's move out," Alastor snapped at the others. He still had a group of twenty-two Aurors, a force to be reckoned with for sure, but not if this became what he thought it was about to.

"We could make a stand here," young Frank Longbottom suggested. "It's defensible enough."

"Ha!" Alastor barked. "And for what? We've done better than we had a right to expect, boy-o, so let's move before something nasty happens. Someone wants us here, and we're not about to oblige them."

Somewhere to his right, Francine Hoyt yelped as she set off a booby trap.

"Constant vigilance!" Moody bellowed. It didn't make him feel better, but someone behind him chucked. A bit.

"You heard the man," 'Bella ordered. "Time to go, boys and girls."

People started shuffling around, making for a defensive Apparation formation.

"_Before _the Dark Lord himself rains down on our doorstep!" Moody bellowed, glad to have targets upon which to take out his frustration.

His Aurors knew him well enough not to be offended by that or the swearing that followed it; they simply picked up their feet and _moved _with a purpose.

Less than a minute later, they were gone.

Thirty seconds after that, Voldemort arrived.

* * *

He'd strode in with the Cruciatus Curse on his lips, and that was _never _a good thing.

Twenty minutes later, Sirius was clinging to consciousness after having been awoken three (or was it four?) times, struggling for air and wondering how long it would take him to see straight. Was this the day he would go insane? He'd seen it happen before. Magic lifted him and he cried out, his senses and body stressed to the breaking point by too much pain.

His back hit the chair hard, and the chains snaked around his limbs immediately, tightening painfully. Sirius bit back another scream, an effort made easier by how weak and wasted out he felt.

"_Crucio!" _Voldemort hissed again, and Sirius' body buckled as every nerve ending exploded in pain. Fortunately, the Dark Lord only held the curse for a moment, and when Sirius' vision finally cleared, the pale face was smiling.

_He was angry on arrival, and now he's _happy_ about that. Lovely, _he thought dizzily. Then he managed a lopsided smile, just because he knew his sense of humor drove Voldemort to distraction. He didn't really find anything funny, but Voldemort hated being laughed at, especially when he was having mood swings.

"Something amusing, Black?" the Dark Lord snapped. Anger radiated off him in waves. Had there been Death Eaters in the room, they'd have been searching for escape routes.

_Laugh or cry, Sirius._

He coughed out a hoarse chuckle, just because he could.

"Something crawl up your skirts?" Sirius wheezed.

"_Carnificius," _was the next curse, just for variety. Sirius writhed for several moments, with blood trickling out of his mouth and the world in a flat spin, before Voldemort lifted the ancient torture curse.

But then the Dark Lord lowered his wand and smiled again.

"Actually, Sirius, you should be the one who is upset," Voldemort said softly, walking to his side. "They tried to rescue you today. Your friends in the Aurors."

For once, Sirius had nothing to say.

_They what?_ He hadn't expected that. He had known there would be no rescue if he got himself caught. That was just the facts. He'd never once thought that the Aurors would try to rescue him from Voldemort, because the Aurors _never _managed to save their own. _We've always known that the Dark Lord kills too quickly to make rescue practical. Everyone knows that there will be no rescue. _Then again, he had not expected to live for seven days, either.

_Seven hours is more like what I'd been expecting._

"Nothing to say?" the Dark Lord taunted him.

"Not to you," he rasped, bracing himself for more pain.

But Voldemort only smiled. "Strikes a nerve, doesn't it? They must know you will break, else they'd not be so desperate to get Potter's Secret Keeper out of my hands."

Despite himself, Sirius shivered.

"Perhaps they're just my friends," he shot back.

A low chuckle.

"Friendship does not last through experiences like this, Sirius," Voldemort said softly, reaching out long fingers to brush hair away from Sirius' eyes.

He flinched instinctively, his body desperate to get away from the hands that had already caused so much pain. This was the first time Voldemort had used his name like this, and it was terrifying. He could not stop shivering. But then the words sank in, and anger lent him strength.

_I won't forget my friends, no matter what you do to me. Monster._

"You must never have really cared about anyone, then," Sirius retorted. "Not really surprising."

The wand pressed into his lower neck without warning. _"Rumperis."_

Sirius cried out as his collarbone snapped, spreading a spiderweb of cracks and pain down his sternum, across his shoulders. His vision swam, and he ached for the strength to scream.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," he wheezed after the curse had completed its work.

"Oh, but I do. And we have all the time in the world, you and I." The wand moved away. "They will forget you long before you forget them, and then you will break."

Sirius scowled, using his defiance as fuel to fight the pain. Still, forcing back the tears was hard. Breathing was agony. "I won't break."

Voldemort only smiled. "They all say that, Sirius."

"I haven't yet, have I?"

_"Crucio."_

* * *

**The First Month Ends: December 15, 1981 **

"What do you know, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. They were standing in the Forbidden Forest with seven layers of wards between themselves and the rest of the world, because even Hogwarts was not always safe in those dark days.

"The Dark Lord—_Voldemort_," Snape corrected himself angrily, still shuddering as he said the word, "is continuing on with his plans to take Azkaban. I am of the opinion that it will take some time, perhaps even months, but he is determined to take the prison. Some of his favorite pets are there, after all, and he would like to let them loose upon the world."

"I see," the old wizard replied, still looking serene.

Severus swallowed. "I'm not…not really sure what else you want to know, Albus."

He was still uncomfortable using that name. He was still uncomfortable being a _spy_. This was all new to him, mostly, and he hardly knew what to do with himself.

_I saved my best friend, even if she'll never know, _he told himself firmly. _Even if Black died to do it, I saved her._

"And have you heard anything about Sirius Black?" Dumbledore asked quietly, making Severus flinch. There were times he feared Dumbledore's ability to read his mind far more than he feared Voldemort's.

"No," he said slowly. "I've heard…nothing, which, in itself is strange. But he has been the Dark Lord's private project almost since his capture, and that is not normal. Lucius knows something, but when I asked I was rebuffed. Simple curiosity over an enemy's fate can only take me so far."

"I understand."

Severus took a deep breath, his mind racing. But—there was no choice to be made. He'd chosen Lily, chosen _Dumbledore _and the Order, and there was no going back. No regrets.

"I did…I did find this. This isn't the original—I had to copy it. It may be nothing, but…"

And he held the paper out to Dumbledore, who did not even seem surprised that the copy mirrored Voldemort's own handwriting.

It was dated 12 November 1981.

_I have him. The fool thought he could hide from me. He thought he could put up a fight when I found him hiding like a pitiful castaway in that rathole of Muggles. Black is mine, now. He has earned his place at Casa Serpente, and a place of honor it is. _

_My personal guest._

_He is full of strength now. Full of defiance. He went so far as to laugh at me when I visited him. He will be one of the greatest challenges that has ever been brought through my doors._

_I look forward to breaking him. It will be enjoyable. It will not be the simple pain, scream, snap, break of the average man. This will take art. My only regret is that my Bella and her Rodolphus were taken. What exquisite work they could have done with him. What a challenge he would have been for their skills._

_They were the only ones worthy of one such as him. This must be done properly._

_I will do it myself._

It was not much of a relief to know that those words could make even Dumbledore shudder.

* * *

**Author's Note**: So, if you think things are going to look up from here…you probably weren't reading this chapter much. :D Obviously, life will get far worse before it gets better, so on that lovely note, stick around for _Chapter Seven_: _The Third Circle,_in which the Order of the Phoenix faces the inevitable, Dumbledore contemplates the nature of friendship and then squares off against the Minister of Magic. As always, reviews are cookies, and authors love sweets.


	8. Chapter 7: The Third Circle

**Promises Honored**

_**A Story from the Unbroken Universe**_

_**

* * *

**_

**Chapter Seven: The Third Circle**

**

* * *

**

**The 47th Day: January 1, 1982**

Dumbledore supposed that he should have done this sooner, but he had never known Fawkes to be so stubborn. For weeks he had been asking the phoenix to form the Third Circle, but his pleas had been resolutely ignored. Fawkes had long been the Order's backbone—literally as well as metaphorically, though few members were aware of that fact—and the Third of the Inner Circles could not be formed without his agreement. And they _had _to reform, and soon. He knew that, visions aside.

_Four men—walking—_

Albus shook his head. _Not now._

He could not afford to let the visions distract him now. Not when Fawkes had finally agreed…though the agreement was not what he hoped for. The phoenix assured him that the Circle would form, and yet Dumbledore was leery of doing so with only seven people.

"What do you think, Minerva?" he finally asked, the invitations laid out on the desk between them.

His deputy headmistress shrugged. "I suppose that it's the best of all available options."

"But you like it no more than I."

"How can I, Albus?" McGonagall asked after a moment's consideration. "Given what Severus has reported, we have no _choice_ but to reform the Inner Circle, but Fawkes' reluctance…leaves me uneasy."

"And I."

"I don't suppose the Aurors…?"

"No." He shook his head reluctantly. "I spoke to Alastor this morning, and he has learned nothing. None of the Ministry's spies know any more than the Order's do."

"I see." She pressed her lips together unhappily, and Albus understood exactly how she felt. Although neither of them could dispute the facts they knew to be true—and Minerva McGonagall was the only living soul aside from himself who knew all of the Order's inner workings, including Severus Snape's status as a spy—neither could force themselves to like it.

A long moment of silence passed. Albus studied the letters on the desk in front of him again, simply for something to look at. The names were familiar—_too _familiar, as every single one of them had been a member of the Second Circle, formed only eleven months before. Everyone was the same, except…

"Then we must assume Sirius is dead," Minerva finally said.

She was far braver than he; Albus could not bring himself to say the words.

"Yes," he whispered.

_A dark corner in a darker hallway; nightmares and hell lay on the other side, and yet he did not hesitate—_

_A voice he knew, harsh and hard, though he had only heard it like this once before: __"__The choice has been made. The Dark Lord's bane will face him…"_

—_One step taken, around a corner he knew but did not know—_

"Albus!"

Only when she shook his arm a second time could he tear himself free of the visions. Struggling for composure, he forced his eyes to focus on Minerva's worried face.

"I'm sorry, Minerva. What were you saying?"

She heaved a sigh. "Nothing. Only that…well, it is a shame."

"That it is," the headmaster agreed, looking down at the letters. _Address the matter at hand, Albus. _"It is highly irregular, but I do not think that we need to call the Inner Circle together today."

"No? We always have in the past."

Sucking in a deep breath, Dumbledore shook his head. "We are all…aware of the procedure, after all, and—and this will keep James and Lily, and especially Harry, safe. We will continue as we have been."

Minerva nodded, her eyes drifting to the letters. Had they been open, Dumbledore would have known what they said. The descriptions were older than the Circle itself; even Dumbledore did not know where they came from, only that he had seen them and at once known that they belonged to the Order of the Phoenix.

**Wisdom is the guide, the voice of reason**—Albus' old seat, and his still, as it would always belong to the leader of the Order.

**Time is the world changer, the decision maker**—formerly Minerva's seat, but now Albus' as well; the fact that Fawkes gave him a second seat instead of approving a new member was frightening, but there was nothing to be done at this point in the game.

**Discovery is the searcher, the creator**—Lily Potter, again. Albus would have been shocked if she had been somewhere else.

**Knowledge is the right hand, the heir apparent**—Remus Lupin also returned to his old seat, though Albus was still quite certain that the younger man had no idea why. _Yet he will save us from ourselves, when no one else can._

**Power is the world breaker, the choice maker**—This was new, though; Fawkes had insisted on the change and even Albus did not know why, but James Potter had gained the seat Alastor Moody would relinquish. Perhaps it hinted at a future for James that might not have been and now was? Albus was unsure.

**Temptation is the breaking point, the weakened link**—Here Alastor had moved into James' old seat, and Albus could not think of one that would fit the legendary Auror _less _well…unless Voldemort managed to finally—_Don't think of that now, Albus. Thinking of deaths brings visions to mind. _He was not a seer, not in the truest sense. But Albus' visions did have a disturbing habit of coming true.

**Truth is the horror facer, the impartial observer—**Minerva had taken over Arabella Figg's old seat, freeing up Arabella to take

**Secrecy is the hidden ability, the unassuming ally—**andthis seat was the reason for the Dumbledore's possession of two seats, because Sirius Black had once been the owner of the Secrecy seat…and Dumbledore had never realized how fitting that position was until it was too late.

"Shall we?" Minerva asked quietly, and he managed to nod, allowing her to hand the five envelopes to Fawkes. There was no reason, after all, to mail the other three.

He stared at the empty desktop for a long while after the phoenix left, simply _thinking_. For years he had known that the war would get worse before it got better, but he had allowed himself to forget that there was always light in darkness. Sometimes, even after living through a century and a half of history, selfless acts of courage could surprise him.

There was a poem carved into the wall in a fourth floor secret passageway that four boys—now men—had always thought their headmaster knew nothing about. When Minerva left, Albus let his feet take him there, slipped behind the mirror, and simply _looked _at the words for the first time.

_I thought he would break_, he admitted to himself_. I told James not to trust him because he was too obvious, but what I meant was that I thought he would see the advantages in choosing Voldemort and decide to follow the rest of his family. Failing that, I could not think of anyone other than myself who does not fear Tom enough to resist crumbling at his feet. _

_I was wrong._

Albus took a deep breath. _Rest in peace, Sirius. You deserve better than even I thought of you, I who think that I see the best in everyone. _Decades had passed since he had underestimated someone so completely, so disastrously…but then, decades had passed since he could honestly believe in a friendship so pure.

_Would that this could represent you and I, old friend, _he thought in the direction of a prison that the Wizarding World had forgotten. This war was too terrible to dwell on the last, after all, and usually Albus preferred it that way.

But his eyes were drawn to the poem again, and now he was not only thinking of four students he had taught.

_**True friendships never really die**_

_**And family isn't defined by blood**_

_**It's made strong by bonds that won't break**_

_**Tempered and tested by trials and pain**_

_**What we are is brothers, and as such we remain**_

_**Loyal to one another until the end**_

_**And no matter what happens between this moment and then**_

_**I shall be always thankful to have had such friends.**_

Dust had gathered in the names beneath the poem; swallowing back a century of regrets, Dumbledore stooped to clean out the letters with a careful hand. _I hope that they never break the way we did. _

**MOONY WORMTAIL PADFOOT PRONGS**

**

* * *

**

"Happy New Year, Sirius."

The sound of the voice made him tense, and Sirius had to force his eyes open. January first meant forty-seven days he'd been in this hellhole, and that meant he'd die there. His captors were not exactly helpful about providing dates—it was the first time in ages that he'd known how long he'd been at Casa Serpente—but Sirius knew well enough that he was alone from here on out.

_They tried once, _he told himself resolutely. _That's more than you have any right to expect, so buck up, Padfoot. Endure. He's made it pretty plain that this isn't ending any time soon._

Somewhere around the end of the first month, Sirius had realized that the Dark Lord wasn't going to kill him. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps his stubbornness was more than the other could handle, or perhaps the Dark Lord was determined to find James, Lily, and Harry. Either way, it had hit Sirius that _this was his life_, and unless he found a way to escape (unlikely given how carefully he was secured in the wake of his last half-dozen attempts to do so) or someone rescued him (even less likely, though his optimistic side pointed out that anything was possible), he had no choice but to live.

_Live unbroken or die broken_. The words remained unspoken, but Sirius knew that the only way to escape the pain was to die, and the only way Voldemort would allow him to die was if he broke first. _Not going to happen._

_Laugh or cry, Padfoot._

Yet he still had to struggle not to flinch away every time he heard the Dark Lord's voice, because that voice, that touch—a hand pushed hair out of his eyes—brought pain. He kept trying to tell himself that it was only human to be frightened, but Sirius hated feeling helpless.

"Do I get some champagne to go with that?" he forced himself to ask lightly. He'd almost asked for a party favor, but he didn't want to know what Voldemort would come up with for _that_.

The Dark Lord chuckled. "Perhaps next year."

A shiver shook Sirius' entire body. _Next year? Does he really expect me to still be here next year?_ He swallowed hard and spoke with what he hoped was a dry tone: "Oh, thanks."

"Forty-seven days. Forty-eight in a few hours," the other replied easily. "Your friends have left you for dead."

"I know," he whispered, wishing the words came out stronger.

"It's not too late, Sirius. Accept my offer. Give me your loyalty. The pain will end, and I promise that the choice will be well worth making. I always reward those whom I respect."

"You always torture them, too?"

"_Crucio._" Voldemort held the curse for several moments as Sirius searched for the strength to scream. Finally, he found it, and the pain stopped. "There's no need to be impolite."

"Says you," he wheezed.

The wand came up again, and he flinched before he could stop himself. "Shall I curse you again, or will you conduct yourself properly?"

"It's not like I can stop you." Sirius glared.

"Ah, but you can. Manners are all that is required, Black."

He'd long since noticed that he was Black when the Dark Lord was angry, and Sirius when he was trying to convince him of something. _Or to do something_. But it was 'Sirius' more often these days. Little though he liked the thought, a odd degree of comfort was creeping into their relationship. Few other Death Eaters associated with Sirius, and when he did see them, they usually were permitted to _hurt _him, not talk with him. Voldemort was the only one with which he had carried on a meaningful conversation since his capture.

_What is it that the Muggles call that syndrome? Stockdale Syndrome? Something like that, anyway._ He grimaced at the thought, remembering how Aurors were taught that sometimes prisoners would begin to feel sorry for those who held them, and would sometimes even start to identify with their captors. He'd thought it sounded reasonable, if sick, at the time, though now he had a different point of view. _He's good at this._ But Sirius was determined to be better.

He grinned at Voldemort.

_Fat chance of me sympathizing with _your _cause. Not when you want to kill my best friends._

"Don't hold your breath," was what he said aloud. "I'm not so good at manners. Just ask my mother."

Was that amusement he saw flickering through the red eyes?

* * *

**The 100th Day: February 23, 1982**

"Things are only getting worse, Millicent," he said quietly to his old…well, if not friend, acquaintance. They'd known one another for years, and worked together well—even if the Minister of Magic did not agree with Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix.

She flinched; he ought not have chosen words that were quite so blunt. "What would you have me do, Albus? I know things appear simpler from inside the safety of Hogwarts, but my people are doing all that they can."

"I know." He sighed, hating himself for bringing her more trouble—even though he'd not hesitated to do so. Although he preferred guiding people to taking direct action, there were times that he did not enjoy the role.

_I am far too old for this,_ he told himself yet again.

"And I would not be here if I did not think I had to be," he continued. "I know you are doing your best to hold the darkness back."

She grunted. "Without much success. _Especially _with you poaching away some of my best operatives for your Order of the Phoenix."

Somehow, all of their conversations came down to the same point.

"It does work both ways, of course," Albus replied lightly. "I do believe you have a rather…experienced candidate currently in Auror training?"

"I'm assuming you mean your garden-variety thief turned operative who suddenly thinks he can be a hero?" Bagnold shot back.

"Oh, I believe I can assure you that the last thing Dung Fletcher wants to be is a hero."

"And the last thing he'll _be _is an Auror, Albus. Have you met the man?" she scowled. "He's little more trustworthy than a freed house elf."

"In which case you should have no fears concerning his loyalty, as in my experience, freed house elves are amongst the most loyal and dependable friends a witch or wizard can have."

"Oh, let's not start this again. Next you'll be telling me that there are good werewolves and vampires, and they're on our side."

Dumbledore chuckled. "There is at least one."

"Your pet Lupin, you mean."

"He's not my pet, Millicent." Albus allowed a slight edge to creep into his voice. "He's a good man, and a powerful wizard. _Not _a Death Eater. Having been bitten by a Dark Creature as a child does _not _make one evil."

"All right. Fine. He's one of yours, and I'll keep my people from bothering him. Happy?"

He wasn't, but that wasn't the point, either. They'd gotten rather far afield from the reason for his visit, so Dumbledore only nodded.

"_Where is it?" a high voice demanded._

_Laughter—all too familiar laughter—was the only answer._

"I asked if you were happy, Albus," the Minister of Magic repeated irritably. "The Ministry will leave Lupin alone."

"Ah, yes. Thank you." Shaking himself mentally, he tried to force the images aside. _A prison cell, a forgotten man—_images he had seen before and must act upon—_Stop it, Albus! Enough!_ Millicent was watching him strangely; his expression must have given some of his distress away. "Though I must apologize. I did not come to argue with you over magical beings' rights."

"I'm relieved to hear that," she replied warily. "What did you come for, Albus? You know I am always happy to clear room on my schedule for you, but I am trying to fight a war. I am due at St. Mungo's in less than an hour—they'd like assurances that Grindelwald's attack cannot be repeated, under _any _circumstances…which you and I know is well-nigh impossible."

_She would have to bring _him _up, wouldn't she?_

"Speaking of Grindelwald," he said mildly, "have you considered Nurmengard's security?"

"European prisons are not my concern."

"They are if Britain's Dark Lord breaks into them," he countered.

Bagnold's eyes widened in fear. "You don't think he'd try to break Grindelwald out, do you? That they'd work together?"

"Oh, no. Voldemort is not the type to share power." Albus forced himself to smile.

His casual use of the feared name made the Minster of Magic flinch away; wide brown eyes stared out at him from a pale face as if Dumbledore had quite simply gone mad. A long moment passed before Bagnold managed to continue, and she had to swallow several times before speaking.

"But would Grindelwald _work _with him?" she pressed. "You know him better than anyone"—he flinched—"seeing as how you defeated him."

"Ah. That." Dumbledore's heart's pounding slowed to a dull roar. "No, I don't believe…Grindelwald would. He is not…_was_ not interested in the same things as Lord Voldemort. I believe that, as unbelievable as it sounds, Gellert Grindelwald would laugh at any overtures of friendship or partnership. He was…different."

She did not seem to hear the hesitation in his voice.

"Then what are you worried about?" Bagnold asked with confusion.

"I am concerned that Voldemort might attempt to target him. Killing Grindelwald would cement his power beyond anything he has ever done." He said the words dispassionately, but even as he spoke, Dumbledore knew that they fell on deaf ears.

"The idea of one Dark Wizard killing another does not distress me terrible amounts, Albus," the Minister of Magic replied archly.

"Even if it draws more frightened witches and wizards onto his side? Grindelwald's death would tip the balance of power precariously, perhaps even permanently," he pointed out.

"If they're there, they're there. By this point, anyone who's going to become a Death Eater has already," she said stubbornly.

"I wouldn't be so certain of that. Fear is a powerful motivator, Millicent. It makes people do things they would otherwise not do—it makes them forget what is right and turn to what is easy."

"I think it's already done that, Albus. We've bottomed out in the war, and you know it. There simply isn't a way for things to get _worse_," the Minister maintained.

"_Avada Kedavra," a familiar voice purred._

_Millicent lying pale and still on a cobblestone street—_

_Laughter._

"I would not be so sure of that," he repeated sadly, visions trying to cloud his eyes.

"I would," she shot back, her jaw set. "I can't say that for public consumption, but there's nowhere to go but up from here. But even were I not convinced of that, Nurmengard is _not _my concern. Grindelwald has been secure there for almost fifty years, and there he'll stay. Dead or alive."

Further arguments got him nowhere; when Dumbledore left the Ministry twenty minutes later, Millicent remained convinced that if Voldemort were to kill Grindelwald, he would be doing the Wizarding World a service. Few enough remembered that Grindelwald still lived, of course, and Dumbledore's line of reasoning that Voldemort would ensure the death was _noticed _had no effect. She firmly believed that things had gotten as terrible as they would get. Nothing could make the war worse.

Dumbledore wished he thought she was right.

Flash.

_An old man cooped up in a cell Dumbledore had never seen, save in visions._

_A long white hand pointed a wand at him._

_"Kill me, then. Voldemort, I welcome death! But my death will not bring you what you seek… There is so much you do not understand…"_

* * *

Harry stared up at James with big green eyes. He was almost two, now—just a few months short of his birthday and growing fast. Of course, he did not yet understand the things his father wished he could explain, such as why James wanted nothing more than to crawl into a corner and spend the day in mourning—unless he could be out in the field, blasting Death Eaters into little pieces.

_Now there's a happy thought_.

A small hand smacked his cheek, making James return his attention to his little boy.

"Sorry, munchkin," he said softly. "I was elsewhere."

Lily sat down next to him. "There are times I wish you'd stayed with Puddlemere United," she said, sensing his mood. "Things were so much more…simple, then."

"Yeah." Listlessly, he pulled his wand out and flicked it to make the tip glow; Harry immediately reached for the new toy, giggling. "I'm sorry that we have to stay here and hide because of the choices I made."

"That's not what I meant," she replied immediately. "You're not the only one in the Order, you know. I made that choice, too. _We _decided to fight back, and frankly, I'd have done the same thing if I hadn't married you. I joined the Order before you did."

That thought made him smile a bit. Lily always had been a firebrand, though they'd been married for over a year before she told him about how deciding to fight against her childhood best friend was the hardest decision she'd ever made.

"That's my wife," James said softly. "The warrior."

Lily rolled her eyes. "No, that's _your _job, adrenaline junky. First Quidditch, then the Order and the Aurors. It's a wonder you've still got hands to hold Harry."

"Isn't that the truth." But thinking of the Aurors made him think of Sirius, and James had to fight back the urge to descend back into depression. _Moping doesn't make it better, Prongs, _he told himself. He, Peter, and Remus had shared a firecall in the wee hours of the morning, and they'd mourned together—shouldn't he be able to move on now? It had been a hundred days, and they _knew _Sirius was dead.

Even Dumbledore said so, and if he'd given up hope, it had to be true.

Lily put her head on his shoulder.

"What I meant was that you were happier then. Less…driven. Even when you were in the Order, during the last few months of the season you were _happy_. Not so…responsible, I guess."

He had to laugh at her wistful tone. "I thought you liked the responsible me."

"There's such a thing as _too _responsible, you know," she replied dryly.

"Can you fetch a Time-Turner and go tell yourself that, oh, sometime around Fifth Year?" James replied. "You know, back when I was trying to woo you and you thought me irresponsible, immature, and eccentric?"

"Two out of three would still have meant I wasn't going to date you."

"Oh, thanks! I'm glad to know I meet your high standards."

Lily chuckled. "You turned out all right. Not without a lot of work on my part, mind you, but you turned out passably. I suppose I'll keep you."

"I'm ever so grateful."

He'd have said more if Harry hadn't reached out to smack him again, ever so lightly. Still smiling, James looked down at his son, and then glanced at his wife's beautiful face.

"I'm glad I decided to fight," he said softly. "Even with everything that's happened. The two of you…you're worth fighting for."

Lily smiled up at him. "Thanks."

Harry only giggled happily.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I apologize for the lengthy delay between chapters; I've been dealing with my father's estate since his death and writing was simply not on my mind. That said, I do hope you enjoyed PH7, and stay tuned for Chapter 8: "Family Never Walks Away," in which Peter gets in trouble, Remus gets a job offer, and Lucius Malfoy deals with family...issues. Thanks for reading, and as always, I'd love to hear what you think!


	9. Chapter 8: Family Never Walks Away

_**Chapter Eight: Family Never Walks Away**_

* * *

**The 178th Day: May 12, 1982 **

The memorial was as much a political statement as anything else.

The entire concept of _using _Sirius' sacrifice infuriated Remus, but Minister Bagnold was determined to hold the ceremony anyway, saying that the Wizarding World needed all the examples of strength and honor that the government could provide. Although the Minster of Magic spoke at length of "honoring such a brave and selfless Auror," the politician's tense smile and ever-so-appropriate expression of condolences to Sirius' family—whose political leanings she did not seem aware of—set Remus' teeth on edge.

Tellingly enough, the only close relations who had chosen to show were Narcissa Malfoy and Sirius' mother, who were probably there to gloat more than anything else Narcissa, in particular, smiled serenely through some of the most inappropriate moments in the service, not even bothering to look ashamed of herself. Watching her antics, Remus was half surprised to not see Sirius' mother grinning along with her niece, or even laughing happily; after all, she was hardly a step away from being a Death Eater herself and had to be pleased that Sirius had died fighting against her precious beliefs.

_Behave yourself, Remus. Being bitter won't bring Sirius back._

James had desperately wanted to attend the service, and it had taken all of Remus, Peter, and Dumbledore's combined powers of persuasion to convince him to stay home. Looking at the Black witches sitting there in gorgeous black and silver robes, Remus was glad. Even though both smiled angelically—but triumphantly—when anyone looked their way, he could almost taste their disappointment.

After all, they couldn't deliver James Potter to their beloved lord when James Potter wasn't there. Though Sirius' mother probably would not have dirtied her hands on such a deviant as James, pureblood or no.

_You can't have James and you didn't beat Sirius_, Remus thought in their direction, repressing a nasty smile. _Dumbledore's spies say that he's dead, and that means you didn't win. _

He shivered, thinking of the Fidelius Charm, and of how it still protected his friends and their child. Thinking of what Dumbledore had said just a few weeks before the service, of the words that had finally convinced Peter and Remus to relent and allow the memorial to be held.

_I wouldn't put it past Sirius to find a way to kill himself before he could give in_, Hogwarts' headmaster had said.

That would certainly explain why Sirius' mother was still glaring at Remus so angrily. That much frustration could not simply be from James' absence.

Remus smiled when he met her eyes, not trying to keep the fury back now: _My friend won and you lost. _The gaping hole representing Sirius' death would never be gone, but Sirius had won.

Even if he would always wish it had happened some other way.

"…And he died so that others may live. There is no higher calling," Bagnold finished.

She hadn't once made a reference to Sirius' role as Secret Keeper, and Remus grimaced. Technically, that was still a secret, but…

"Damn shame, isn't it?" The gravely voice startled him, and to Remus' right, Peter jumped, too.

He swallowed hard and turned to face Mad-Eye Moody, whom Remus knew a little from his work with the Order of the Phoenix, but hadn't expected to see at the memorial. From what Sirius had said, his old Mentor felt that attending funerals was a waste of time.

"More than that," Remus replied softly.

Moody grunted. "A word, Lupin?"

He glanced Peter's way before nodding; the smaller man looked broken inside, but he was holding himself together.

"Sure."

Moody stumped away from the crowd, and though Remus was hesitant to turn his back on certain gloating individuals, he followed. Even Bellatrix Lestrange would not be foolish enough to try to hex Mad-Eye in the back—and she was in Azkaban, and unable to try. Her sister was much smarter, unfortunately.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Blacks scowl at the Auror before Apparating away. Clearly, they did not want anything to do with the war's most famed dark wizard catcher, and a part of Remus couldn't blame them. He was on the same side as Moody, and the Auror still made him uneasy.

_Sirius liked him, _he reminded himself. _Sirius called him Old Softy behind his back and made jokes about the places that eye has been._

He almost smiled at the thought until pain wiped the happy memories away.

"Black talked about you from time to time," the older man growled, startling Remus back to the present.

Remus blinked. "He did?"

"Said you taught him a lot. And that you got the short end of the stick, particularly on nights of the full moon."

"I—"

"I can't help you there," Moody cut him off. "But I do see you boiling with anger and wanting revenge, and I _can_ help with that."

The intensity in Moody's good eye made a shiver run down Remus' spine. He forced himself to take a deep breath before asking shakily: "What are you talking about?"

He tried so hard to keep his temper, the wolf, in check. And he thought that his grief had overwhelmed all other emotions—_not_ his fury. His anger had drowned in the pain, hadn't it?

"Few enough people know what you are, Lupin. And so far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter a bit. Dumbledore trusts you, and Sirius trusted—" Briefly, Moody looked away. When he continued, his voice was gruff:

"Regardless. You're a damn good wizard, and the Aurors need boys—_men_—like you. Old enough to have seen a bit of the world and the war, and motivated to knock the Dark Lord back on his arse."

Remus stared. Swallowed. Gaped. "Are you offering me a _job_?"

"As an Auror, yes. No strings attached. I understand you're lacking employment at the moment, and you did damn well back in Diagon Alley when the Death Eaters came to call."

"I'm out of work because I'm a _werewolf_," he pointed out incredulously, his shock making him forget his usual caution. How many jobs had Remus _lost _because he was a dark creature? He'd lost count just a few months after leaving Hogwarts, and he was sick and tired of living off of his friends' charity.

"People are stupid," the Auror replied bluntly. "So you're no good one night a month. I've got lots of students who're crap seven nights a week, and you're a damn sight brighter than they are."

"The Ministry would never allow it."

"The Ministry will do as they're told," Moody growled. "Leave that to me and Dumbledore, boy. Between Sir—_Black_ dead and Potter incommunicado, the Aurors need all the help we can get. What do you say?"

Remus could only stare.

* * *

"You're dead, you know," the soft voice said. "Officially."

Sirius' eyes opened slowly; the world was a haze of pain. He wasn't sure when the last time the _Poenatoxicum _wore off was, only that breathing hurt more than anything else.

He was so tired.

"I am told that the memorial service was tastefully done, though your dear friends the Potters refused to appear. Your keynote speaker was none other than the Minister of Magic herself. Your name has even been added to the Aurors' list of the fallen. You should be honored."

"Fancy that," Sirius replied, slurring. "Ol' Bag-o-mold spoke at my funeral."

What else should he say? As always, he tried to take refuge in humor, though he was smart enough to brace himself for the pain that was sure to come.

Voldemort laughed.

Sirius coughed, and regretted it immediately. He lay limply on the floor of his cell, unable to move even if he _hadn't _been bound—and he was. Voldemort was not so foolish, not when Sirius had all but broken Nott's neck the first time he'd tried to escape, and taken Barty Crouch's wand off of him not once but twice in the preceding months. His other eight or nine attempts had not gotten so far, but he kept trying, something that the Death Eaters seemed to forget he would do. However, the rules had changed after Sirius' last try; no matter how weak he was, now, he was always bound.

Barbed wire and flesh did not make for a comfortable combination. Sirius was quite certain that he'd have died of infection long ago if the Dark Lord would have let him.

"And now you're dead. Even your friends have given up on you."

He hadn't thought of it quite that way. He'd been too focused—too forcing himself to focus—on the fact that **Millicent** Bagnold had spoken at his funeral, even though she'd hated his (and Moody's) guts. _I wonder what Alastor would think of me now… _And then Voldemort's words sank in.

They did think he was dead. That explained why there had been only one rescue attempt in the last six months (young Barty had helpfully told him how long it had been just a few days ago). That explained why he was now the longest-lasting prisoner he'd ever heard of Voldemort holding, and why… The thought trailed off.

Pain made breathing hard, and for once it was not physical.

_I'm never going to see them again, am I? Not James, or Remus, or Peter, or even Lily and Harry. They all think I'm dead._

"Good," he whispered, making red eyes widen.

"Good?" Voldemort repeated, sounding surprised.

That was a first.

"Good." The word was stronger this time.

"You aren't happy that your friends have abandoned you, Sirius," the Dark Lord said quietly. Contemplatively. "You're only glad that they are safe."

"Same thing," Sirius retorted, wheezing for air. That morning had been the third time he'd been under the _Poenatoxicum, _but he thought it was the longest. "They think I'm dead, they'll go on. They'll be safe."

Voldemort arched an eyebrow, raising his wand. "Until you break."

"I won't." Sirius braced himself for the curse soon to come.

"Everyone does." The Dark Lord smiled a soft, almost pitying smile. "It is only a matter of time and method."

* * *

Going to the memorial service made Peter feel rebellious. Furious. Even being summoned to Malfoy Manor a few hours later did nothing to dent his anger—for once, he managed to look Lucius Malfoy in the face and not shy away from fear.

Malfoy did not seem to notice; he wore his customary sneer.

"Have you managed to uncover Potter's location, Pettigrew?"

"No." _And I wouldn't tell you if I did know, you aristocratic ball of slime._

"I'm certain he's looking for a new Secret Keeper by now. Perhaps you should volunteer—unless you're too afraid?" Malfoy drawled.

He swallowed hard. Peter was fortunate that his role as a spy usually kept him away from the Dark Lord, but it did not save him from having to report when summoned. Malfoy was his controller, most of the time, save for the days when Bellatrix Lestrange used to pop in at inopportune moments to offer instruction (her current status as a prisoner solved that dilemma, thankfully). He'd learned to fear Malfoy, however; just because the older man was saner than his sister-in-law did not mean he was less dangerous.

"If Sirius is dead, they're not going to need a new Secret Keeper," Peter replied in a small voice. "Not for years."

_And I'd say no. I'd say no because I betrayed them once and I _won't _do it again. _But if that was true, why was he shaking?

Why couldn't he shake the image of Sirius, dying alone and in pain, from his mind?

Peter wanted to break down, then and there, and beg Malfoy to get the Dark Lord to release him from his _unimportant _role as a spy—a roll that dragged him deeper and deeper with each passing day—except he knew that would get him killed. And he was too afraid to die like Sirius. Too afraid to leave his friends grieving again.

_Me dying would kill Remus,_ Peter thought convulsively. _Especially now. _He swallowed again—twice—and focused on Malfoy as the other wizard chuckled.

"No, they won't now, will they? And how are you feeling about your dear friend's death? After all, you should hate those who anger our Lord, _Death Eater_."

"You said they'd be safe!" the words roared out before Peter could stop them. "You said if I helped you, they'd be _safe!_"

"_Crucio!"_

Malfoy did not hold the curse long, but Peter was still screaming several seconds after it was over. He'd never had a high tolerance for pain.

"What was that, Pettigrew?"

He really should shut up now, but Peter could not stop himself. He could only hope that the mixed tears of rage and grief were mistaken for those of mere physical pain.

"You said that if I served him, my friends would be safe!" Peter snapped, struggling to his feet. "You _promised _me that they'd be spared—especially James, and _especially _Sirius! You lied to me!"

"_Crucio."_

He must have blacked out this time, because his vision cleared and Malfoy was standing over him. Unable to help himself, Peter started to shake.

"Now listen here, you worthless little Gryffindor. The Dark Lord takes those he pleases, which you well knew before you _chose _to join him. I care not how you deluded yourself into doing so. _You_ _serve the Dark Lord._ Unless you would like to kneel before him and protest your friend's death?"

"No," Peter whispered.

His limbs were still spasming, and getting himself killed wouldn't bring Sirius back.

_At least James is safe. Lily and Harry are safe, and I _won't _find out where they are, so they can't make me tell what I don't know. _

_Remus is safe, too. Dumbledore will keep him safe._

"Now get up, Pettigrew. There is work to be done."

Peter swallowed hard and obeyed.

* * *

She'd stayed in the back at the service, listlessly listening to the Minister of Magic speak. She was close enough to hear, but what was there to see? There was no body, and no one knew _when _he'd died. Only that he had.

Narcissa looked her way more than once, but Julia ignored her sister-in-law. Narcissa was gloating, of course—what else could someone do, if they attended an Auror's funeral with Sirius' nasty mother?—and Julia wanted no part in it. At least Lucius had the sense not to come. She'd have hexed him into the next century if he'd shown even a bit of pleasure over Sirius' death.

It wasn't something they talked about. That unspoken rule between brother and sister had been broken only once, just a week after Sirius' disappearance.

"_Tell me, Lucius. Please."_

"_Tell you what, sister?" he was distracted, she knew. Voldemort was planning something new, and he'd let Lucius take on more and more responsibility as time passed. Her brother was well on his way to becoming the Dark Lord's most trusted servant, and that was _important _to Lucius. _

"_Tell me if he's alive. Tell me if he's dead. Just tell me what's happening. Tell me something."_

"_About who?"_

"_Lucius!" her hand slammed down on the antique table in front of him, making her brother jump. "You know I'm talking about Sirius."_

_Finally, his eyes met hers. "I don't think you want to know, Julia," he said slowly._

"_The hell you say. Tell me anyway."_

"_No."_

"_Damn you, Lucius, I'm not a child!"_

"_The less you know, the more I can protect you. The Dark Lord_ knows _you were his lover, Julia. Don't endanger yourself by getting involved."_

"_I _am _his lover!"_

"_You _were_," her brother repeated. "He's not coming out of this, Julia. Consider him dead, and move on."_

Six months later, she still hated herself for listening to his words, but what else could she do? Even if she'd gone to Dumbledore, adding her pleas to those of Sirius' friends would not have saved him.

And now he was dead, and she had nowhere to go but down.

**

* * *

**

Remus waited three days to tell Moody his answer, both desperately wanting to say yes and terrified to say no. Those feeling should have made the decision easy for him—as Peter pointed out more than once—but he wasn't like Sirius or James. Remus had no qualms fighting for what he believed in, but as an _Auror_? The thought boggled his mind, especially when he considered the mess the Ministry would find itself in if the public found out about his condition. Moody undoubtedly meant every word he said—and it being Mad-Eye Moody, when he says that he'd deal with something, most people would automatically consider the problem solved—but Remus' worries would not leave him alone.

In the end, Dumbledore completely circumvented the issue.

"I have a better idea," the headmaster said when Moody brought Remus to him, clearly figuring that the werewolf needed further assurances.

"What?" the Auror growled. "Albus—"

"I've rethought my position, Alastor," Dumbledore cut him off gently. "Although I still believe that Remus would make an excellent Auror, his own misgivings lead me to present an alternative."

Remus felt himself perking up; the little boy he'd been still desperately wanted to trust Dumbledore above anyone else. The headmaster had been the first wizard to _demand _others treated Remus like a normal human boy, ignoring his condition and even allowing him to go to Hogwarts. His gratitude would never diminish, but why did he feel like he was being manipulated?

"What alternative?" he asked quietly, ignoring Moody's unhappy look.

"I need someone with your unique…skills, Remus," the old wizard said delicately.

"You mean you need a werewolf." He sighed. "You don't have to be delicate about it, Headmaster. I know what I am."

"And so do I, Remus. You're a loyal, intelligent, and extraordinary _man _who happens to be disadvantaged by an accident that took place in your childhood," Dumbledore replied earnestly. "But yes. Not to put too strong a point on it, but I do need a werewolf."

Remus smiled wryly. "And I'm the only one you have. Hit me with it, whatever it is."

Ten years ago, even five years ago, he would not have been able to say those words so lightly. But his friends had _changed _him, and so long as he had them, Remus would be able to find peace with his condition. _So long as I have them_—his throat constricted painfully, and he could not avoid thinking about Sirius. _We never thought that anything could tear us apart_. _We were invincible, so long as we were together. But now_—he cut himself off with an effort, shoving the grief aside. Sirius' loss still burned, but he was not alone. James and Peter had made that painfully clear over the preceding months, and it was Peter who made the time to stay with him during every full moon since Sirius' capture. _And no matter what happens between this moment and then, I shall be always thankful to have had such friends._ The memories no longer burned so badly, even if the pain would never completely diminish.

Dumbledore answered his question bluntly:

"I need someone to contact the werewolves for me. I understand that they are thinking of entering the war on Voldemort's side, and I would like to prevent that."

His stomach dropped out; a long moment passed before Remus could stutter:

"You don't mean—"

"No, not Greyback," Dumbledore replied gently. "There appear to be two main 'societies' of werewolves, now: the main one, and the splinter group led by Greyback. His fanatics are not likely to cease their attacks on humans, and they _are _likely to join forces with Voldemort. It is the others I am more concerned with."

"They don't trust outsiders, Headmaster," Remus replied quietly, his mind whirling.

"You're not an outsider, Remus. Not really. And please do call me Albus; you're not a student these days."

He hardly heard the second part. Remus had experienced very little contact with his own 'kind' over the years; the few he'd met seemed disgusted by the fact that he was determined to live in Wizarding society as a normal wizard—or as normal as a werewolf could be most days of the month. They'd been shocked that he'd been permitted to attend Hogwarts, and more than a little hostile.

"To them I am," he replied grimly. "I'm not—I'm not like them, Albus. If you think I'm bitter, you'd see a lot worse from them."

"I realize that. However, I am willing to offer certain things in exchange…or perhaps in encouragement. I have recently spoken to the Minister of Magic about increased rights for many beings, including werewolves, and I expect significant legislation to be passed on those topics very soon."

"Horseshit," Moody interrupted congenially. "Bagnold hates everyone and everything that isn't what she thinks of as normal. She'll not do it."

Remus did not miss the glare that sizzled in the air between the two wizards; although Moody's tone was casual at first, that ended once Dumbledore twisted around to look at him unhappily. For a moment, he wondered if the headmaster's office might spontaneously erupt in flames, because neither looked ready to give an inch. Dumbledore's tone grew just a bit colder as he answered: "The legislation will pass, Alastor."

"Not while she's alive, it won't," the Auror retorted. "The good news for you is that Voldemort's bound to target her sooner or later, and Millicent's a good bit more stubborn than she is powerful. But she's grown to hate you almost as much as she hates me, Albus, so she's not going to do shit to bail you out when you create this mess.

"Because there's no way in the seven fires of hell that she knows what you're up to, does she?"

Hogwarts' headmaster sighed. "This is a mission for the Order, yes."

"Thought so," Moody snorted, swinging back to face Remus. "Now listen to me, boy. I've nothing against the Order—I'm a member myself, as you well know—but you'll do yourself no good with the Ministry if you take this on. Crouch has had us investigate you no less than three times, which is how I know you're squeaky clean, but that won't continue if you piss Bagnold off. She holds grudges until they die of old age, and then she mounts them on the wall so she can admire her handiwork."

"I…didn't know that about the Minister," Remus responded slowly, trying to buy time.

"Of course you didn't. She's an old bag of mold, but she's _our _bag of mold. The Aurors aren't in love with her, but we do our jobs," Moody replied bluntly. "Which is rather my point about why you should work with us."

"And what happens to the Aurors when people find out what I am?" The question came out in a whisper before he could stop it, but _this _was Remus' greatest worry, his deepest fear.

"Screw it, boy. We can't look much worse than we are, as we're busy losing the war. Decisive action is what's required, and you can do that. That's why we need you."

Dumbledore's chuckle cut Remus off before he could answer. "Lemon drop?"

Both the werewolf and the Auror twisted to stare at the headmaster. "Not now, Albus!" Moody snapped.

But Remus had to smile slightly as Dumbledore continued.

"I hope you're flattered that Alastor and I are fighting over you, Remus," he said with a smile. "Of course, we both feel that our missions are the most important—even as we both fight for the same cause. The only one who can make the final decision is you, and whichever one you make, I am certain it will be the correct one."

_No pressure, Moony. None at all. _The voice in his head sounded a lot like James', and he smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. _Just pick how you're going to contribute to the war effort—fighting openly or behind the scenes._

Oddly enough, the thought made the decision easier. He wasn't James, and he wasn't Sirius, either. He couldn't replace either of them, and that was what Moody seemed to want him to do. Those two had always been the active Marauders, the frontrunners, the ones people noticed. Peter had been the peacemaker, and Remus had been the planner. _What was it that Sirius told me, way back in first year? _

Sirius had said that the others liked Remus for who he was, period. Nothing more complicated. _Be who you are. The rest is just details._

"I'm sorry," he said to Moody. "I appreciate the offer—more than you'll ever understand, believe me—but I think that this is what I need to do. With the Order, I mean. I'm the only werewolf we've got, and I've never been a warrior. Not really, anyway."

"I think you're underestimating yourself, Lupin," Moody replied immediately, but Remus could see from his face that he knew Dumbledore had won.

"Probably not. I know myself pretty well, and I'm not _afraid _to fight…but I'd rather help people, make people…better," Remus replied honestly. "Perhaps I can help someone else by doing this—help them the way I was helped, a long time ago."

Dumbledore's eyes met his, and the old man smiled slightly. Remus didn't quite know everything this mission entailed, but he'd do his best—he owed Dumbledore far too much to do anything less.

* * *

She'd not slept much over the last three days, and not only because of the funeral. Julia had accepted Sirius' death months ago—not because she_ wanted _him dead so much as because she knew her brother would have told her if he had survived much beyond the expected week or two. Although quite a few years separated brother and sister, they had always been close. They were _Malfoys_, and that meant that they trusted one another. Family never walked away, not under any circumstances. She knew he would have told her.

That knowledge brought Julia to where she was now, sitting in her ancestral home's foyer and waiting for Lucius to return in the wee hours of the morning.

Narcissa was home, but only because Draco was young enough that he _did _need his mother; Julia had no idea how the Dark Lord felt about a Death Eater who skipped meetings because she trusted no one else to take care of her son for more than a few hours, but since Narcissa was alive and well, she assumed that the Dark Lord was practical about such things.

She'd not been foolish enough to expect Lucius any time before midnight, but three in the morning was beginning to push matters.

_So you've missed your bed time. You've done far worse when digging through tombs looking for magical artifacts, so why the annoyance?_

But the feeling wasn't irritation; it was nerves. Was she certain that she wanted to do this? So long as Lucius hadn't come home yet, there was still time to change her mind.

_And do what? Abandon my family? _

Julia wasn't enough of a rebel to do that without good reason, and she no longer _had_ a reason left.

At almost the same moment that thought ran through her mind, Lucius walked through the door, pulling his mask off and tucking it inside his robes. He stopped cold.

"What are you doing here, Julia?" he asked with surprise.

"Can't I visit my big brother?" she tried to ask lightly.

He saw right through her, of course. Lucius had known her for too long. "Not at nearly four a.m. You look terrible."

"Yeah. I think I need a drink."

"The liquor cabinet has been in the same place for at least two centuries, sister," her brother replied immediately, sinking onto the couch. "Pour us both one while you decide what to tell me."

Julia sighed and obeyed, then brought the bottle of Firewhiskey with her as she joined him on the couch. "Cheers," she said softly.

"Cheers indeed."

A moment of silence passed while they both sipped at the Firewhiskey; under other circumstances, Julia would dearly have loved to just knock the drink back (along with the five or six that would follow it), but tonight she wanted to be in full command of her senses.

"I've been thinking a lot about family lately," she said softly.

Lucius twisted to face her, his eyes wide. "I know where you're going with this, Julia—"

"Then stop. Let me finish."

He looked like he wanted to say something else but stopped himself. After a few seconds, Lucius nodded, and Julia continued:

"You, Cissy, and Draco are all I have for family. And I have always known what you're doing, even if the rest of the world hasn't caught on yet. Like you, I've always believed that blood should _mean _something—even if my views are a bit less…forceful than yours. But that doesn't matter much.

"You're my family, and I'll be a Malfoy until the day I die. The first thing our parents taught us is that _family never walks away,_ so if you're in this, so am I."

"I might not be able to protect you from the Dark Lord, Julia. Serving him isn't…safe," Lucius replied quietly.

"I'm not asking for protection," she retorted, hating the fact that to Lucius, she'd probably always be a little girl. "And I'm not some helpless witch who only knows how to cast Cleaning Charms and raise children. He can use my skills. I _find _things, and I've heard of the artifacts he's looking for. No one has found them. I can."

Putting his half-finished drink on the table, Lucius studied her quietly, and Julia met his eyes. As frustrating as it was to have an older brother who always wanted to protect her, she supposed she was lucky. He was _family_, and she wasn't going to let herself forget how important that was.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked.

"What else am I going to do?" she asked wryly.

_After all, it's not like I have anyone else to cleave to. I have nowhere else to go. Work isn't enough; I want to be with my family…and if I'm going to be lonely, at least this will give my life a purpose. _Julia continued before he could interject.

"I am not a child. I have made my choice."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yes, Julia isn't making the best decision, but it's the only one she sees at the moment. And Dumbledore is _definitely _manipulating Remus; it's what he's good at. More seriously speaking, I'm back writing after my father's death sucked my creativity away, so stick around for Chapter 9: "Promises Remembered", in which we hop forward in time, Remus and Snape face off, and Voldemort spends some quality time with Sirius. As always, thanks for reading, and the review button is indeed magical.

The 181st Day: May 15, 1982


	10. Chapter 9: Promises Remembered

_**Chapter Nine: Promises Remembered**_

* * *

**The End of the First Year: November 12, 1982 **

* * *

"I wish Remus and Peter could be here," James said quietly.

Lily wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. Harry was sound asleep, still, safe in his bed—her charms would have warned her if he'd woken, even a little—while she and James stood on the hillside, watching the sun rise. November had been unseasonably warm, and the sky was crystal clear shades of blues and yellows, but she still shivered.

James was close to breaking down, and she wished he just would. It had been a year—but twenty years would still not be long enough. He didn't have to be strong for her, but this was James; he would always try.

"Me, too," she whispered, looking at the monument.

It was on the highest hill at Godric's Hollow, something she knew Sirius would have liked. He'd always loved heights, whether on brooms, flying motorbikes, or high towers at Hogwarts, Sirius had been at home in the sky. _Perhaps he's there now, _Lily told herself. _I hope he's at peace._

A pillar made of black marble and topped with a six-pointed gold star, its presence said the words neither she nor James could manage to speak through the pain.

Sirius Black

1960-1981

_Faithful until the end._

_Gone, but never forgotten._

Sirius had never been her best friend—Lily had hated him longer than she'd hated James, after all—but she'd grown to love him like a brother. And now she owed him her son's life, and her husband's, and that was a debt she would never forget.

Someday, somehow, she was going to find a worthy way to honor that memory.

"Do you think…" James started hesitantly, making Lily turn to face him.

"Think?" she prompted gently.

"I mean, maybe…there's been no body, and Voldemort never said anything…"

Lily swallowed hard, squeezed her husband tight. "I wish…but no, I don't think. While it's remotely possible…I think Voldemort would have tried to use him to draw you out by now, if Sirius was alive."

There. She'd said his name without her voice breaking. That had to mean something.

But James could not do the same, and she held him as he cried.

* * *

"One year down," Voldemort said quietly as Sirius hit the floor; the words seemed to come at a distance. "Do you believe your friends are thinking of you today, or have they moved on?"

He wouldn't dignify that with an answer; he'd just lie there and bleed.

Young Crouch had a flair for physical torture that his master did not share; though Voldemort rarely liked to get his _own _hands dirty, he was more than happy to let others do so. Crouch was one of his favorites—Sirius devotedly wished he'd known _that_ when he was busy working for the bastard's father as an Auror—and he was one of the few Death Eaters Sirius was constantly exposed to at Casa Serpente.

_Too bad some Auror hasn't gotten him yet. He's one jerk I'd be happy to never see again. Where is Alastor when I need him? He'd hex this bastard to kingdom come._

"Answer him, worm!" Crouch snarled, and the whip fell again.

Sirius cried out, but did not answer.

Everything hurt, and he'd ignore them for as long as he could.

* * *

Peter woke up in a cold sweat, still shaking. Fumbling for his wand, it took him three tries to even make the spell work.

"_Lumos, _damn you," he hissed at the offending piece of wood, and light finally filled his bedroom.

He let out a shuddering breath and squinted against the sudden brightness; why was it he never remembered how _bright _this charm was?

"_You betrayed me!" _the voice echoed in his ears. _"You betrayed us all when I died for our—"_

"It's only a nightmare," Peter gasped. "Only a nightmare, Wormtail. Stop thinking about it."

Why was he still shaking?

"_I would have died for you," _the nightmare voice continued in his mind. _"And you didn't even try!"_

"I've never been strong…"

Peter shook himself. Stopped the words with an effort. He would not argue with the nightmares his consciousness decided to drag up—he wasn't _crazy_; he was frightened. He was in too deep and he knew it, but he had no choice but to continue on and keep the faith as best he could with the friends he had left.

_I'm sorry, Sirius. So sorry. I just can't—_

"Stop it!" He jumped as the light went out. "What the—?"

His palms had grown so sweaty that he'd dropped his wand, and it took several long moments of searching in the dark before he could find it again. He'd never been good at Summoning Charms, after all, and there was no way he could manage to do one without the wand he needed.

"_Lumos,_" he repeated in what almost came out as a level incantation. At least he managed it on the first try, anyway.

He was glad he was in France. Although he'd originally been reluctant to leave his friends behind, the promotion had been too good to pass up, as both Remus and James had told him. But the truth was that he was glad for the distance—sometimes, every now and then, it made the guilt easier to bear.

Even after Sirius had been caught, he'd never seen his friend. Peter's role as a Death Eater was minimal; he was mostly a spy, and he rarely saw the Dark Lord. Had Malfoy suspected that seeing Sirius would make Peter do something foolish? He'd never asked because he had never wanted to know, but now Peter wondered.

A year too late, he wondered.

A year later, he still dreamed of a tortured or dead Sirius, demanding to know how Wormtail could have betrayed his brothers that way.

* * *

**The 656th Day: September 1, 1983 **

He had never thought this day would come.

Barely back from the disastrous failure that meeting with his fellow werewolves had been, Remus had expected Dumbledore's disappointment to weigh upon him heavily. Although he'd acquitted himself well in the fight that had broken out, rescuing four children with minimal help from the Order, whose members had arrived a good bit too late to actually accomplish anything, Remus had anticipated fading back into the shadows, quietly resuming his job search and ending his participation in the Order's greater matters. He hadn't expected _this._

"And finally, let us welcome our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Remus Lupin," Dumbledore finished, and there were suddenly hundreds of eyes on Remus as students applauded.

Swallowing, he levered himself to his feet and waved a thanks for the welcome, wondering if he should say anything—_Did my professors ever say anything when they were new?_ He could not remember, and decided to sit back down before he put his foot in his mouth.

Professor McGonagall's reassuring smile did nothing to make his heart beat slower; Dumbledore had offered him the job just two days before the start of the term and Remus was still wondering if he had dreamed it all up. He even pinched himself (again), but there he still was, sitting between Quirrel and Snape_, _getting dirty looks from both professors who had hoped to gain the job Remus currently occupied. Neither seemed willing to talk to Remus, but the snubs hardly bothered him. He mind was too busy whirling to hold up his end of any conversation.

The rest of dinner swept by in a blur; by the time the students left the Great Hall, Remus had mostly managed to convince himself that he was not dreaming. Slowly, he levered himself out of his chair, looking around in wonder.

_I thought this place was beautiful when I was a student here. But I never thought I'd be so lucky that I got to come back._

His parents would have been so proud—

"Taking a _bite _out of dinner, Lupin?" a snide voice asked from his left.

Remus sighed. _Of all the students in my class, why did Dumbledore have to let _him _teach here? He can't be good with the students. _With an effort, he kept his voice level, turning to face his fellow professor. "Good evening, Severus."

"There's hardly anything _good _about it with you here," Snape sneered.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you."

The other wizard's lip curled with disgust. "The only disappointment, Lupin, is that you didn't decide to stay with Greyback and your other _fellows_ out in the Liverpool fens. Although I understand that you didn't exactly make a _good _first impression."

"I didn't exactly fit in," Remus replied dryly, trying to ignore the way Snape's eyes traced over his left side, with his sharp gaze ending pointedly on Remus' ribcage—right where fresh bandages were hidden by the bulk of his robes. _How does he know?_

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?"

It took all of Remus' self control not to snap back; he was hurting, he was tired, and today was supposed to be a _good _day. "At least," he said slowly, "I am comfortable with who and what I am, which is more than I can say for you."

Dark eyes bored into his. "You know _nothing _about what I do, Lupin."

"I know you're a Death Eater," Remus replied easily, not having expected that vehement of a reply. "And judging from the sound of your response, not a very happy one."

_I always thought he'd fit right in with the lot of them. He hardly ever talked about anything else during our seventh year except how we'd 'get what we deserved' when he had power and we did not._ Remus frowned, looking at how tight Snape's pale face had become. _And he certainly seemed to enjoy attacking me. Strange._

"No, I never had _friends _like yours," the other shot back. "Still, it must be lonely—Black dead, Potter hiding, and Pettigrew running his cowardly self every which way—how _do _you manage on the full moons, Lupin? Do you cry yourself through every transformation?"

That hit a bit too close for the truth; although Peter tried to be there for every full moon, Remus had found himself alone far too many times over the last year and a half. Something snapped.

"Just be grateful I spend those nights alone, Severus," he snarled.

"I'll only be grateful when you're put down like the animal you are," the other retorted, but Snape's suddenly frightened expression told Remus that the blow had struck true; neither would ever forget the night Severus Snape might have joined Remus in his misery.

"I am not an animal," Remus replied tightly, but strangely enough, those words felt _true…_for the first time in his life. He might not have believed himself before he'd seen the ramshackle werewolf society hiding out in the fens south of Liverpool—a place he would have ended up in if not for Dumbledore.

Remus had heard stories of Greyback and his followers, tales of the brutal lives they led and of the children stolen and bitten, but he had never believed them. He had always wanted to think of other werewolves as _better _than that. He wasn't so different, after all; he'd merely been fortunate in the chances he'd been given. He had always told himself that werewolves were still human…except they didn't act like it. Most of them _were_ the animals Snape believed they were—not because they had to be, but because they chose to be.

Even his own first transformation had not frightened him as much as those werewolves had.

"No, you're simply Dumbledore's pet. What will you do when he tires of you?" Snape interrupted his thoughts.

"What will you do when he discovers that he can't save you from yourself?" Remus shot back.

"I," the Potions Master replied coldly, drawing himself up, "do not need saving."

Somehow, the hard-wrought pride in Snape's posture only made Remus feel sad.

"We all need saving," he said quietly.

Snape's only answer was a snort as he stalked away.

* * *

He'd been amused in the beginning, and then curious. After all, not every day did someone dare defy him—and no one dared to do so for long. But _this _was a bit much.

Nearly two years had passed since his loyal followers had brought Black in. Six _hundred _and fifty-six days had passed since he had greeted the blood traitor at Casa Serpente, and yet the boy still resisted. Curiosity was bleeding into anger. He had been civilized about this thus far, but the prophecy hung over his head like a death shroud. He would tolerate it no longer. The Potters' defiance—and _Black's_, in protecting them—could not be allowed to continue.

_I'd be more patient if not for Dumbledore making the most out of his sacrifice. The fool _still _thinks he can beat me. What does he think he is doing on the WWN, save for antagonizing me?_

Five days, five attacks. Had his opponent been anyone other than Albus Dumbledore, he would have assumed that the other wizard had learned his lesson. But no, not Dumbledore. The old headmaster would never admit defeat—he'd said as much during that infernal WWN broadcast, in which he pointed to Black as a martyr for defying the Dark Lord and saving his friends. _Old fool. He thinks he knows me so well._ The speech had been unwise, which was not something he could usually accuse his old teacher of being. He'd all but thrown the gauntlet down.

The thought brought a smile to Voldemort's face, and his fingers drummed lightly against the wall in anticipation.

_Won't he be surprised when he wakes one morning to find the Potters dead, betrayed by that very same 'martyr' whose heroics he made so much of?_

Black's resistance was impressive, but enough was enough. Stepping forward, he waved Barty aside. The lad was a talented torturer—he had learned well from Bella—but his attempts to weasel answers out of Black always came to naught.

"I have run out of patience with you, Sirius," he said to the bound figure, gratified to see the slight flinch from the sound of his voice. Oh, the defiance had not lessened, but Black had grown truly afraid over the last six hundred days.

That was an improvement, even if he was far from pleased with the situation.

"This…is you being _patient_, then?" the Auror quipped.

"_Crucio."_

The screams were too quiet to be satisfying at all, and he flicked his wand aside after about a minute, and then waited patiently for Black to regain coherency. It was taking longer and longer these days.

Barty pressed forward. "Master, may I—"

"No. He will be punished for his impertinence soon enough."

Blue eyes blinked open. Black was not incoherent yet, and Voldemort had been extremely careful to keep him sane, no matter how much pain he had put him in. That was the reason he indulged Barty's fascination with more physical torture methods—and had done research of his own on the topic. The Cruciatus Curse was an excellent tool, but it did have its drawbacks, and an insane prisoner would be of no use to him.

"Thanks for proving my point," Black whispered hoarsely.

Voldemort chuckled, and watched the defiance crumble under fear, just for a moment. "It's hard being strong, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "Hard holding to friends who no longer care about you?"

Predictably, the defiance blossomed back to full strength at the mention of his friends.

"Not hard enough," the other coughed.

"Point taken."

_I'm going to have to make him fear me enough that his loyalty becomes a secondary consideration. He is not there yet—their memory still lends him strength, even when he wants to break._

Curious, he raised his wand, watching Black flinch. Smiling, he crouched next to the bleeding figure, making a mental note to have Barty remove and replace the barbed wire on Black's arms. The Auror had lost weight, and it would not do for him to escape because he could pull his arms free of their bindings. "But you are frightened."

He was surprised when Sirius met his eyes.

"So?"

"You are frightened, and yet you have not seen the worst I have to offer," he replied with a smile, brushing blood away from the other's forehead. Sirius tried to jerk away, weakly, but Voldemort pressed his hand down harder, and all humor left his voice. "I have been kinder to you than you deserve, but that stops now. You will break, Sirius. Everyone does."

"Haven't yet, have I?"

"I wouldn't be so proud of that, were I in your position. I would be worried."

* * *

"Hiya, Moony."

The voice made him jump; Remus was still not accustomed to the Hogwarts quarters he'd moved into mere hours before the feast, and he certainly wasn't expecting to see his two best friends lounging on his bed with their feet up on his blankets. But that was _James _who had spoken, James who Remus had only seen once in the last year and a half—and that was Peter sprawled next to him, grinning up a storm.

"What are you doing here?" he asked stupidly.

"Talking to you, of course," Wormtail replied.

"But—you're—_you_ aren't supposed to be here! You're supposed to be in hiding!" Remus pointed an accusing finger James' way, then swung to glare at Peter. "And _you're _encouraging him."

"Always," Peter grinned. "He doesn't take much encouragement, you know."

"I know that! But—"

"Relax, Remus." James hopped off the bed and came to meet him. "I was here to talk to Dumbledore—I do that every now and then—and Peter and I decided to surprise you. Figured we owed you congratulations, even if you hadn't found the time to tell us about your new job."

"I barely knew about it myself," Remus replied weakly, accepting the back-slapping hug James offered. If they hung on for perhaps a moment too long, who was there to notice? Peter understood.

"So we heard." James drew back, still smiling. "But who would have thought it? One of the Marauders is teaching at Hogwarts! The mere thought is going to drive McGonagall insane."

Remus shook his head to clear it, still fumbling his way through his surprise. "She's been very nice so far."

"Ha! Like that'll last," Peter predicted. "Just leave some cat nip in her desk and wait until she transforms. That'll do the trick."

Trying hard not to laugh—he _was _a professor, after all—Remus reached out to shove the shorter man. "I'm not _trying _to do the trick, worm-brain. I'm her colleague now."

"Colleague, smalleague," was the immediate response.

"Though we did know it was coming," James piled on. "We _did _used to call you Professor Moony, after all."

"Which you thoroughly deserved," Peter added.

"Which is our way of saying congratulations," James finished. "Really. It's great to see you here—I can't wait for you to teach Harry."

Remus blinked. "That's a long time in the future, Prongs."

"So? You want to quit already?"

"Well, no. Of course not. But with people like Snape teaching here…" he took a deep breath. "I'm just not going to count my chickens before they've hatched. I'll take each day as it comes."

"Don't let ol' Snivelly get you down, Moony. I'm sure you're going to be a better teacher than he is."

"Not like that's exactly _hard_," Peter put in. "Does he still grease his hair back because he thinks it makes him look older?"

Remus finally let himself laugh. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, he does."

Tension he had not known was in the room suddenly seemed to disappear, and they were the Marauders again. _It's been too long, _Remus thought to himself, feeling honestly happy for the first time in months.

"Forget Snivellus, Moony," James said with a grin. "We've got far more important matters to deal with."

"Oh? Like what?"

He brandished the bottle of Firewhiskey with a flourish. "This."

* * *

"Bring the brank, Barty," he heard the dispassionate voice command. With an effort, Sirius managed to turn his head to track the Death Eater's movements, though he was barely able to see Crouch from his new position.

They'd pulled him off the floor and strapped him down to a table, yanking his arms out from behind his back—Sirius had not known that could hurt so badly—and chaining them down at his sides. Someone had half-healed his broken left arm at some point, and it had seemed to be doing a valiant job of finishing the process itself, but now he was certain that the fracture had re-broken. He'd also forgotten about the cracked ribs until Crouch had forced him flat on his back, and Sirius felt like he was breathing in fire instead of oxygen.

That was Voldemort looking down at him. The sight made Sirius shiver, no matter how hard he tried not to.

"Thanks in large part to your resistance, I have done a bit of historical research," the Dark Lord told him. "I find myself inexplicably intrigued by the methods that medieval Muggles once used against wizards. And since I have no wish to grant you the escape of insanity, I will have to resort to more…brutal techniques."

Sirius stared incredulously. "You don't call this brutal?" he managed to ask in what he hoped was a light tone. "You need to…get out more, mate."

Long sentences were hard to speak, especially like this.

"I will miss your witty conversation, of course," Voldemort continued, and fear welled up in Sirius' throat. There was no way to miss the warning tone in the deceptively soft voice.

_What is he going to do? _For once, he could not come up with a witty comment. He could only stare.

Crouch reached his side, daggling a contraption in front of Sirius' face. His blurry vision caught sight of leather and metal, but Voldemort's hand grasped his chin and forced his head away before he could figure out the rest.

"Medieval Muggles called this the brank. Ironically enough, they used it to keep witches and wizards from saying spells—and they used it very effectively, as speaking a word, or making any sound, causes intense pain. As you will soon find out." The Dark Lord smiled, and Sirius shivered again.

His eyes drifted back to look at the object, and this time Voldemort did not stop him. The majority of the object seemed to be made of leather; there were two straps that could be connected by a buckle, but were not yet. Joining the two straps, however, was a metal rod only a few inches long that seemed somewhat bumpy—realization hit. _This is going to be really, really bad_. Sirius swallowed hard. Those bumps were spikes, and another metal strip extended perpendicular from the center of the rod. This one was vaguely rectangular, and maybe two or three inches wide by three inches long. It, too, was spiked.

Sirius was a pretty bright man, even with his mind bogged down with pain. And he'd always had an active imagination, so it took no effort at all to figure out how badly the brank was going to _hurt_.

He had to force himself to take a deep breath, and fight back the cough the tightness in his chest wanted to cause.

_Laugh or cry_, he told himself sternly.

"You're resorting to…Muggle torture devices?" he managed to ask after a moment. "You must be desperate."

"I am vexed," the Dark Lord replied quietly. Dangerously.

Sirius shivered again.

"You may proceed, Barty."

Crouch leaned over him, and Sirius tried to pull away, jerking his head left and then right. He was trying to annoy the Death Eater as much as he was trying to get away, but if _vexing _them was the only way he could fight back, Sirius would take what he could get.

"_Petrificus Totalus," _Crouch snarled angrily, and Sirius' body froze.

For a moment, he dared to hope that the full body bind would take the pain away, but Sirius quickly realized that was not the case. Everything still hurt—but he couldn't move. He couldn't fight. He could only watch with wide eyes as the brank got closer and closer, and then Crouch flicked his wand and Sirius' jaws wrenched wide open.

He grunted in protest, but they both ignored him.

Then the brank went in—cold metal was on his tongue, brushing past his teeth. He'd bitten his tongue enough times that any contact was painful, and suddenly those were _spikes _pressing down—Sirius screamed.

Making noise meant moving his tongue. Moving his tongue only made the pain worse. Once started, he couldn't _stop _screaming, and he was barely aware of hands lifting his head and the leather strap buckling around the back of his skull, and then the strap _tightened._

Sirius wailed in pain. He would have been thrashing if the chains would have let him; he knew his head was jerking back and forth in pain—when had the full body bind been removed?—but he could not stop it. Every scream only made the pain worse; he felt like his mouth was being torn to shreds. Blood dripped into the back of his throat at an alarming rate, making him cough and choke, but no matter how hard he tried, Sirius could not stop screaming.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Please do mind the jumps in time in this chapter; they'll continue as the story moves on. That said, please do let me know what you think, and stay around for Chapter 10: "The Shape of Things to Come", in which Voldemort's impatience grows, Snape and Remus have…issues, and Dumbledore drops a bombshell.

In another note, if you're a_ Doctor Who _fan, please check out my new saga of the Time War, "War By the Numbers".


	11. Chapter 10: The Shape of Things To Come

_**Chapter Ten: The Shape of Things to Come**_

**

* * *

**

**The 657th Day: September 2, 1983**

_He has fared surprisingly well. I did not expect that he would remain conscious so long, or that he would continue to resist my kind offer once put in so much pain._

_I should not be surprised._

_Still, there are other methods, and I will use them all._

_

* * *

_

Looking back, Remus should not have been surprised that it all started with a duel. He hardly knew the students in question—it was only his first day teaching, after all—but he was a _professor_, and this was not some playful match. Even from a distance, Remus could tell that all three of the duelists were out for blood.

_Or both of the remaining ones, anyway_, he amended silently as the boy who'd seemed to be carrying the duel fell with a cry and aslender girl jumped forward to take his place.

Thankfully, he'd taught Slytherin sixth years first thing that morning, and Remus was good with faces. He didn't know the boy who'd fallen—or the new girl—but he knew the laughing Slytherin well enough. _And there I was thinking that she was one of the good ones!_

The two students clearly had no idea a professor was approaching, because they traded curses at an alarming rate, with the Slytherin girl gaining a slight upper hand after the first half-dozen spells exchanged. Then the newcomer tripped, even though Remus hadn't seen her hit.

"Hestia Jones!" he shouted without breaking stride. "Put your wand away right—"

"_Stupefy!" _a youthful voice cut him off, and a jet of red light hit the Jones right in the chest. The second girl—she was wearing Hufflepuff robes—twisted around in surprise.

"Charlie!"

Remus had just made it past the first boy, who'd been lying prone—and seemingly unconscious—on the ground.

"'orry, Tonks," the boy ground slurred. "…was gonna curse you."

"I was handling it!" the Hufflepuff retorted, glaring at the red-haired boy on the ground. Remus recognized him, now; even if he'd not noticed the flaming red Weasley hair, McGonagall had pointed out Gryffindor's star seeker the night before.

"Share…_sure…_you war. Were," Charlie Weasley replied with a dizzy smile. "Can I take you to Hogsmeade now?"

"No!" she scowled at him. "I didn't ask you to defend me. I was doing _fine. _And second years can't—"

"And what is going on here?" a smooth voice interjected, tearing Remus' mind away from the drama and reminding him that he was a professor now, not a simple onlooker. _Way to let Snape jump in, Moony, _he chastised himself. _Where _did _he come from, anyway? _Remus forced a pleasant smile onto his face.

"It appears that several students have been practicing their dueling skills on one another, Professor Snape," he replied.

"Thank you for the explanation, Lupin," was the snarled response. "You. Weasley. Fifty points from Gryffindor for dueling. And you—"

Tonks cut him off indignantly. "But Jones started it, Professor! Charlie was just trying to—"

"And one hundred points from Hufflepuff for interrupting a professor, Miss Tonks," the Potions Master continued nastily. "In addition to fifty for dueling."

"But—"

Swiftly, Remus stepped forward and clamped a hand down on the girl's shoulder; being a Hufflepuff, that was enough to cut her off.

"I assume that you were about to take fifty points from Slytherin for dueling as well, Professor Snape," he said calmly, and heard several of the watching students snicker quietly. Snape simply glared, not bothering to reply as he knelt by his student's side, wand out.

"_Rennervate," _the head of Slytherin muttered, and Hestia Jones' eyes flew open. A split second later, her wand was coming up and a curse was on her lips.

"Enough, Miss Jones," Snape cut her off, and the wand went down.

_Excellent reflexes, those. _Despite himself, Remus was impressed.

"I will take these two to the Hospital Wing," Remus told Snape before the other professor could speak up. "Perhaps you should deal with Miss Jones."

"They'll be having detention—"

"With me," he interrupted firmly. "Tonight. I assume that you will assign the appropriate time to Miss Jones?"

Snape's glare sharpened as he rose. "Of course I will. Come, Hestia."

"Yes, Professor." The girl paused to shoot a glare at the still-prone Weasley boy, but she followed Snape willingly enough, favoring her right ankle. Remus looked down.

"Can you walk, Charlie?" he asked.

"Pro'ly."

"Then up and fly," Remus said. "I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will want to see you."

"Can I just stay dizzy?" the Gryffindor fifth-year asked wryly, struggling to his feet.

Remus allowed himself a slight smile, turning to the Hufflepuff second year. "Why don't you join us…?"

"Just Tonks, sir," she replied with a scowl. "I hate my first name."

"Just Tonks it is. Now come along, you two." He raised his voice, turning to the crowd of students. "And the show's over, ladies and gentlemen. Be about your business."

The trio headed towards the Hospital Wing in silence, and they were in a deserted hallway before Charlie spoke up:

"When will we have our detention, Professor?"

Remus thought for a moment. It was the first detention he'd assigned, and he hadn't really had the opportunity to ask McGonagall what the procedures were. "Tonight, I think. My classroom isn't organized yet, and you can help me with that."

Tonks muttered something under her breath, making Charlie snicker.

"What was that, Miss Tonks?" Remus asked. She blushed, and he thought he saw her hair turn purple for a split second.

"I just said that it beats cleaning the dungeons, Professor," she replied in a quiet voice.

"Ah. Well, I imagine it does."

* * *

He was still strapped to the table.

Sirius regained consciousness slowly, but he noticed that even before the pain sank in. The position wasn't one he usually woke in, and that thought occupied his mind long enough for coherency to sink in—and a soft moan to escape before Sirius could clamp down on it.

He tried to scream, and was glad, for once, to be too weak to really manage. Still, it took all the self control he could muster to stop the cries and gasps in pain; the brank kept digging into his mouth, making blood flow off his tongue and down his throat. Gagging, Sirius struggled to lift his head off of the table to clear his throat, and then found that he couldn't—the brank was attached to the table.

That started another bout of screaming, and this one persisted until he was simply too exhausted to continue.

"_Rennervate," _the cold voice said just as he was about to drift into blackness.

Sirius shuddered.

"Good morning," Voldemort said softly, tapping his wand against the brank. Sirius could only whimper.

_Oh, God, this hurts._

His entire body was shaking with pain, and he felt inches away from blacking out again.

"_Crucio_," the Dark Lord whispered, and the pain hit like lightning. His body's shaking turned to convulsing as every nerve lit on fire; he felt like his bones were trying to snap themselves in their bonds, and red and black splotches obscured his vision. He was screaming hoarsely, and he feared his tongue might be torn out—

His head jerked up in agony, the brank tore down, and Sirius passed out.

* * *

"Do you know what _your_ son did today, James Potter?" the voice called as James crawled out of the fire. He'd flooed to Hogwarts for their celebration (Dumbledore had ensured that the house Godric's Hollow was connected to the school years ago, just in case). Sometime past breakfast, he had woken up on the floor of Remus' chambers; Peter had somehow made it to the couch, but James had not been so lucky, and he was _still _aching. He'd spent the morning closeted with Dumbledore and just now stepped out of his own fire, only to find a beautiful redhead glaring Unforgivables his way.

"My son?" he repeated, dusting himself off. "I thought—"

"Yes, _your _son," she repeated, hands on her hips. "With _your _broom."

James' mouth opened and closed a few times, and he was quite certain that he wore the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights look Sirius had always accused him of having.

"…Do I want to know?" he asked slowly, realizing belatedly that he'd managed to think of Sirius in happier times, and had done so without breaking down.

"He's going stir crazy," Lily answered. "As much as I am. We've got to get him out more, James. He needs friends."

James sighed. "I know. I could call up Frank and Alice—if Harry's going crazy, I bet Neville is, too."

"_Except _I hear that Frank's mother is going to de-activate the Fidelius Charm, soon. Voldemort seems to have lost interest in them."

"All the more reason for Harry and Neville to play together. Maybe we can find somewhere we can meet safely—"

Lily snorted. "Don't I wish."

James wrapped his arms around her. "Me, too. We could meet Peter somewhere."

"Peter isn't enough, James. And it wouldn't be safe. This is the only place that is, and you know that."

"How about all four of us—you, me, Harry, and Peter—going to visit Hogwarts once Remus gets settled in there? We could spend a day or two there," he suggested, finally feeling Lily relax against him.

"Dumbledore's there," she agreed quietly. "That would be safer."

He kissed her hair. "See? Give me long enough and I _always _come up with something."

"Don't get me started on what some of your solutions have been in the past," Lily laughed.

"Speaking of which, what _did _Harry do with my broom?"

* * *

He woke up trying not to scream, and found himself choking on the potion Voldemort had poured down his throat. Sirius had no idea what it was, but the tonic tasted like blood and cleared his foggy mind all too well.

"Did you know that your friends are getting careless? Just yesterday, James Potter was spotted at Hogwarts…" the Dark Lord trailed off meaningfully.

Sirius' heart was stuck in his throat. He could swear it was. He wished he could ask—but he could only stare.

"Oh, I don't have him," Voldemort said congenially. "If I did, I would bring him in here and make him watch as I tortured you. But he's acting like the foolish Gryffindor he is…and sooner or later, my Death Eaters _will _capture him, and then what will your sacrifice be worth?"

"Mmm—" the words cut off in a sob of pain; Sirius had forgotten about the brank in his hurry to answer.

Long moments passed before he could control his gasps enough to focus.

"It will be worth nothing, Sirius," the other said with surprising gentleness. "Save yourself pain and surrender now."

_I'd rather die._ This time he was smart enough not to try to say it, but the thought got through well enough.

"Have it your way, then."

A long fingered hand vanished into the dark green robes, and then emerged with a small stoppered vial that Sirius had seen before. His heart stopped.

He wasn't shaking in fear. He really wasn't. That was only the pain.

_When Grindelwald goes good you aren't, Padfoot._

"You recognize the _Poenatoxicum_, of course," Voldemort said easily. "You should be grateful I have such an excellent Potions Master—a former classmate of yours, if I recall correctly—else I'd not be able to administer this nearly so frequently. It does make an excellent alternative to the Cruciatus Curse, does it not?"

Sirius swallowed, and for once he hardly noticed the taste of blood.

"The longest you have been under is just over three hours. Three hours of the worst torture the Wizarding world has ever created—especially considering the fact that your mind will refuse to wander the way it does under Cruciatus. But I am no longer so forgiving. Unless you surrender, today you will endure six hours. Tomorrow will be seven. The next day, eight.

"This will continue until you are dead or until you choose to serve me."

* * *

**The 664th Day: September 9, 1983 **

There were times Remus wondered if Snape was going out of his way to make his life miserable. The rest of the time, he _knew _Snape was doing just that.

It wasn't that he couldn't understand, at least a little, why Severus Snape disliked him. After all, two of Remus' best friends had done their dead level best to make Snape miserable from time to time—though to be fair, Snape had given back almost as good as he'd gotten. But Remus _wasn't _James, and he'd never bullied Snape. He'd not stopped it, either (a regret he still lived with), but he had not participated.

Nowadays, he was careful to treat Snape with the respect a professor deserved, no matter what he thought of the nightly activities he _knew _the other engaged in. He'd not said one condescending word in front of the students, and Remus wouldn't stoop to that level…no matter how much he _wanted _to.

"Is there a problem, Professor?" He forced his voice to be mild as the words came out, but a nasty glare like that usually meant Snape would be in rare form.

He'd only been teaching for a week and the other _professor _was already well on his way to making Remus regret his choice.

"Why would I have a problem with you, Lupin?" the other replied, his acid tone making students' heads turn. The Great Hall was almost empty; only Remus and his class had been present before Snape's untimely arrival.

Remus tried not to sigh, though the effort failed. "I was rather wondering that myself."

A student or two snickered, and Remus wished they wouldn't. This was hardly the first encounter between him and Snape, and the students seemed to be taking much more pleasure in the friction than he was. Remus knew that Snape had wanted the Dark Arts job—and he would never forget certain events from their own fifth year—but he still couldn't understand why Snape refused to put old grudges aside in front of the students.

"Incompetence has _always _bothered me," the Potions Master shot back.

"Then perhaps you ought to go find someone incompetent to bother," Remus retorted before he could stop himself. But he'd had it with Snape.

_I _know _Dumbledore knows what he's doing with his nights, so why is he still here? _The thought made him want to scream.

"Shall I substitute for you on the twenty-third? My schedule is clear," Snape purred.

The third year Ravenclaws were staring, now, and that was never good. There were some exceedingly bright ones in the group—and Remus could not risk Snape saying too much, no matter what laws Dumbledore claimed would soon be passed. With an effort, he turned back to the class.

"As I was saying," Remus continued tightly, "the boggart plays upon our worst fears. The only way to actually _defeat _a boggart is with laughter, which is why I have taught you the Riddikulus Charm, which helps you turn the boggart into something you find funny. But I must stress that the Riddikulus Charm does _not _actually defeat the boggart."

He smiled.

"But, as you can see, the charm is aptly named. What was it yours, Marcia? A vampire with rubber teeth?"

"Yes, Professor," the girl replied, blushing slightly—but the smile on her face made the work worthwhile.

The Ravenclaws giggled, remembering, and Remus almost allowed himself to forget about Snape. Marcia Burrow had the hardest time out of anyone in the class (apparently her fear of vampires stemmed from a very real near-miss in her childhood), but with the help of her classmates, she had finally defeated the boggart.

"Excellent. Now, I do believe it is almost lunch time, so off with you." Remus waved his class away, moving towards the suitcase in which he stored the boggart. Driven back into hiding by Marcia's Riddikulus Charm, it should have been easy to handle; the suitcase was not completely closed, but Remus had been defeating boggarts since childhood.

"You dropped this, Professor," Martin Page called to him, making Remus turn and accept the grading sheet he'd had in hand earlier. _Hm. Must have missed when I was putting it in my pocket._

"Thank you, Martin," he said with a smile, stuffing the parchment away.

"Professor, look out!" one of the other students shouted, and Remus spun. First he turned the wrong way, but then realization hit, and Remus twisted to face the boggart.

Motion. It had crawled out of the suitcase, and Remus braced himself for the full moon—

That was James' dead body lying on the floor of the Great Hall. Broken and bleeding, with sightless eyes staring up at the cloudless sky.

"Lupin!" Snape shouted.

James' body was gone. Peter's body took its place for a moment, but quickly morphed into Lily's.

_Lily._

The red of her hair mixed with the blood surrounding her head; one eye was missing and the other swollen shut. She was—

_Get ahold of yourself, Moony! This _is not _real._

"Damn you, Lupin," Snape snarled from not far away. "Get control of—"

"_Riddikulus!"_ Remus shouted, and the boggart turned into a cockroach. Another flick of his wand sent it scurrying back into the suitcase.

Remus let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and then forced his rubbery legs into motion. Snapping the suitcase shut, he double checked the clasp before straightening.

Footsteps closed in on him like an avalanche.

"You pathetic fool!" Snape snarled, almost on top of Remus. His normally pale face was death-like, and his black eyes wild. "What in the name of Salazar Slytherin did you think you were doing? Your carelessness nearly—"

"It was just a boggart, Severus." Remus forced his voice to be level, but he could hardly hear over the pounding of his own heart, even though Snape was shouting.

"Just a—" the Potions Master cut himself off, sneering. "If that's how you want to view the deaths of your _dearest _lovely friends, Lupin, that is, of course, your business."

Remus gaped. "What did you say?"

"Judging from your reaction, it would serve you right if the Dark Lord found Potter and his little wife." The words were a purr, but Snape's eyes glittered with hatred.

Two wands came up simultaneously. Remus would never know who moved first, and it did not matter. All that mattered was how badly he wanted to curse Snape into the next century, to hurt the bastard for being loyal to the monster he had chosen to follow, for endangering people like James, Lily, Peter—and even Sirius.

_I bet he helped capture Sirius, too_, Remus thought coldly. _And I bet he enjoyed it._

His mouth opened, but the curse never emerged.

"That is quite enough!" a stern voice interrupted them.

Remus hesitated, his wand almost touching Snape's nose.

Snape did not move, either, though his wand was practically poking into Remus' right eye.

Both glared.

"Put those wands away immediately, Professors!" McGonagall ordered.

Another second passed. Another glare.

Sighing, Remus lowered his wand, watching warily as Snape did the same.

_Here goes this job_.

He did not notice Dumbledore, standing far off to the side of the Great Hall and silently watching the exchange.

* * *

The world was a haze of pain, even hours after the Anti-_Poenatoxicum_ had been administered. If not for Crouch forcing three other potions down his throat, Sirius would have remained in blissful unconsciousness, barely aware of anything at all. Unfortunately, he had been dragged into wakefulness, even if his coherency was questionable.

"That was twelve hours, Sirius. Would you care to try for thirteen tomorrow?" a cold voice whispered in his ear.

Sirius shuddered, but was too tired to even shake his head.

Though he wanted to. He so desperately wanted to.

He'd fought against the _Poenatoxicum _until the third day (the eight hour day). Sirius did not like to admit to fear, but he'd finally come to realize that fear wasn't the same as breaking, and being terrified did not mean he was going to give in. He just didn't have the energy to fight right now.

A hand patted his cheek, and he tried to cry out in pain. It came out as a whimper.

"Remove the brank, Barty," the Dark Lord ordered without warning. "I miss our witty conversations."

Doing so was easier said than done, of course; by now the spikes had dug rather far into Sirius' mouth, and by the time Crouch finished pulling the brank free, Sirius was incoherent with pain once more. When Voldemort touched his face, he passed out.

* * *

Remus had not felt so guilty since he'd stood in Dumbledore's office after Sirius' fool-mined prank had almost gotten Snape killed. Truth be told, he felt _worse _this time; whereas he'd not been responsible for his friends' actions back in fifth year, this time he had made his own choices. _He _had acted.

And he'd done so in front of students, which was even worse.

"Sit down, professors," Dumbledore ordered quietly. All he'd said in the Great Hall was that they had to talk, so here Remus and Snape were, both still being glared at by McGonagall.

"I am not," the headmaster continued, "going to lecture you on the detrimental effects of arguing—nay, _fighting_—in front of the students. I think you both know how wrong that is."

Remus could only nod, feeling his face turn red. After a moment, Snape did the same, though his expression was unreadable.

"Good. Now, let us discuss the root of the problem. You two are going to _have _to learn to get along, or at least to keep your disagreements private. Severus, I know that you—"

"He's a werewolf, headmaster," the Potions Master cut him off sharply. "He's a danger to the students. I know that you believe he is not, but you _know _he is."

"Not when he has taken the Wolfsbane Potion," Dumbledore replied easily, making Remus' heart jump into his throat. Wolfsbane was one of the most expensive potions on the market, and he would _never _have been able to afford it—even now that it was out of the testing phase, Remus had never had a job that paid sufficiently for _that_. Come to think of it, he still didn't make enough.

Snape's jaw dropped open. "You want _me _to brew it for him?"

"Yes, I do."

Remus only stared as Snape sank back into his chair with a sigh. _Wolfsbane Potion? _His heart was hammering in his throat again. _Am I really going to be able to…?_

"Well, Remus?" the headmaster's voice jerked him out of his reverie.

"I, um, thank you," he managed after a moment. "I don't know what else to say. I just…thank you. I'll owe you for life. Everything."

"I was hoping you would tell me about your problems with Severus," Dumbledore interjected with a slight smile.

Remus swallowed. "Oh."

_What do I say?_ Dumbledore had been so good to him, and it seemed churlish to point out things that the headmaster already knew.

"Remus?" the old wizard prompted.

He sighed quietly. "I know…I know what he does when he's not here. And I can't accept that. I can't ignore it."

"Are you so certain?" Blue eyes quizzed him curiously.

"I know he's a Death Eater."

"But of course he is," Dumbledore replied, making McGonagall snort. Snape only rolled his eyes.

"Then"—Remus cut himself off, his mind working furiously. If even McGonagall was so serene about the situation, that meant—"you think he's working for you."

"He is working for me, Remus. For the Order, that is." But he must have seen Remus' skepticism, because Dumbledore continued: "In fact, Severus is the spy who alerted us that Voldemort was targeting James and Lily Potter."

"He _what_?"

He hardly noticed the suddenly sharp glare Snape was shooting the headmaster's way.

"Indeed. Severus has been working with the Order for some time. I trust him. And I must ask you to do the same."

All Remus could do was stare at his old classmate, at the abrasive and nasty boy they'd all hated so much. Lily had the only one who argued that Snape had been better than people took him for, that he didn't want power for power's sake. But the Marauders had never believed her, and none of them had been surprised when Snape took the Dark Mark.

_Lily_. Suddenly everything made sense.

"The last image from the boggart was yours, too," Remus said softly.

Snape blanched.

"She doesn't know, does she?" he asked when the others said nothing.

"And she won't," Snape snarled, rising abruptly. "Are we finished, headmaster? Apparently, I have potions to brew."

Dumbledore sighed, nodding. "Yes, you are finished, Severus. Thank you."

No one spoke until after the Potions Master had vanished in a swirl of black robes and greasy hair.

"Do you understand now, Remus?" the headmaster asked quietly.

"I…I guess so. I'm surprised, though. It's a lot to take in. Snape abandoning Voldemort? I never thought I would see the day."

"Nor did I, until he came to me."

"He should tell Lily."

"That is his choice to make, and we cannot make it for him. I understand that she still writes him letters from time to time." Now the smile was sad, and McGonagall's expression spoke of the same sorrow. "Perhaps someday Severus will break down and reply."

* * *

**The 665th Day: September 10, 1983 **

Quill scratched on parchment.

_I must investigate other methods. I did not expect this._

_Instinct tells me that if I subject him to more than twelve hours of Poenatoxicum I will ruin his mind, and I do not wish that. I want him broken, not shattered, and I will have my way—even should it take years more._

_This has gone beyond my desire to rid myself of the Potters and their infernal child. That prophecy is clearly not as an immediate concern as I once thought, as the Potters live in hiding and have done nothing to defeat me. Perhaps I have nullified its effects by driving them out of the war. _

_Sirius is another matter. Far from being enraged by his continued resistance, I am intrigued. He has withstood more than any other, and mere friendship cannot carry a man so far. There must be other reasons, and I will uncover them._

_It helps that he is of the oldest blood. The greatest power has always been in the Fourteen, and he has proven that, even if his ideology is an annoyance. I will discover the means with which he fights me, and then I will mold him into my most loyal follower. It will take time, but I have years to spare. He will break._

_

* * *

_

**Author's Note**: I'm sorry it's been so long—I'm working on my Masters' degree now and life has gotten extremely busy! (Not to mention the 80 pages of reading per night that I need to do…) Stay tuned for Chapter 11: "The Second Round", in which the infamous 'lunch scene' finally shows up, Lily gets a job, and someone new says no to Voldemort. In the meantime, please let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 11: The Greater Game

**Chapter Eleven: The Greater Game**

* * *

**The 824th Day: February 16, 1984 **

She was going stir crazy, and needed to get out. Small wonder that she wound up at Hogwarts.

"I have an idea," Lily told Dumbledore after she'd been settled comfortably in his office, dipping her fingers into a bowl of lemon drops.

"Should I be worried, m'dear?" the headmaster asked with a smile.

She grinned. "Possibly. After all, living with James all these years has corrupted me…a bit."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Sugar quill?" he offered, holding a new tray out.

"Thank you." Lily's sweet tooth had been the despair of her parents when she was a child; the number of cavities and fillings she had by the time she left for Hogwarts was astronomical. Years later, she'd discovered that magic could remove fillings _and _fix her teeth, which only made her sweet tooth sweeter. She loved candy, though keeping it away from Harry at home was a challenge.

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering, thankful that the old wizard simply _let _her think. Lily had always respected Dumbledore, but as she grew older she had come to see him as a friend.

"I was thinking of all the odd Charms projects you send my way," she said. "I was contemplating the nature of Healing Charms yesterday, and babbling a bit at Harry while I made lunch. And he asked me—with the panache only a three year old can manage—why I didn't just ask a healer."

Lily popped another lemon drop into her mouth and savored it for a few seconds before continuing.

"It occurred to me that I wind up in that kind of situation rather often. Then I spend hours digging through books and trying to find the answer—and driving James crazy because I'm _studying _again, and we're _out _of school—when I really could just be talking to other people in the Order."

"If you Fire Call them, Lily, it interferes with the Fidelius Charm," Dumbledore pointed out gently.

"Oh, I know that. I understand it, too, and that's why we set up very few people with actual access to our fire," she agreed. "I'm proposing something more personal."

One silver eyebrow rose. "More personal?"

"I think the Order needs a group of sorts. A collection of people with varying skills—transfiguration, dark arts, and healing would probably be a start—getting together on a regular basis to work on whatever projects come up. That way, any one of us doesn't spend days looking for an answer someone else knows off of the top of their head."

Dumbledore settled back in his chair, looking pensive.

She watched him with a level gaze, knowing that the thoughts whirling by behind those blue eyes existed on levels she would never comprehend. Dumbledore had always been an enigma to Lily, but unlike James, she was happy to leave a mystery unsolved.

_This one, anyway_, she thought with a smile. Most times, Lily was as bad as, if not worse than, her husband. She enjoyed picking mysteries apart, finding out how things worked and _why _things happened—but she was also content to leave the greater myths and legends alone. And Dumbledore definitely qualified as both a myth and a legend.

"It might work," the headmaster interrupted her thoughts. "Doing so would be dangerous, but…trying times call for desperate measures."

"That they do," she agreed easily, meeting his eyes.

Dumbledore frowned. "You do not appear nearly so worried about this as you should be, Lily. Forming this group will place you in significant danger."

"I know," she responded immediately, checking a sigh. He _did _mean well, after all. "But I am not a helpless housewife to be locked up and protected, petted and pampered, and only let out when something might not _endanger _me. Professor, I'm—"

"Albus," he cut her off gently.

"Albus, then." Lily smiled despite herself, but continued with passion. "I'm not a witch without talents, and I'm sick of waiting at home and being protected. I know it's important," she said before he could interject, "but I want to fight back. I _need_ to."

A moment of silence passed between them, not uncomfortable, but still…something.

"You sound so much like your husband," he finally replied with a soft smile.

"We did marry one another, you know."

"And I'm quite certain that your boy will inherit all of his parents' strengths—and their stubborn insistence on fighting back, even when they should remain safe." Lily opened her mouth to object to the last part, but Dumbledore waved her arguments aside. "How is Harry, by the way?"

"Growing bigger every day. It's amazing." She had to let herself puff up a little; she _was _a proud mother. Even when Harry stole his father's broomstick and tried to re-enact James' famous Quidditch maneuvers.

"I find children usually are," Dumbledore said. "That's why I keep teaching."

She nodded, but refused to let him change the subject. "About that group, Albus?"

"Of course, of course." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm never going to get away with anything again, am I? First Minerva insists on keeping me straight, but now you and Remus seem to be making a habit of it."

Lily smirked. "Good."

* * *

oooo-oooo-oooo

* * *

He'd always been a bit too much in love with dramatic entrances.

"Has the student returned to visit his old master?" Gellert called into the darkness. Silence answered, making him smile. "Or have you come to intimidate me, Tom?"

An angry snarl finally broke the stillness. "My name is Lord Voldemort."

He laughed. "You don't' expect me to call you that, do you?"

There was no answer.

"My dear boy, I'm quite as comfortable in this forlorn and frightening environment as you are. I hardly earned my fame telling children's stories, after all." His deft fingers rearranged the pieces on the board in front of him. "Why don't you come into the light, and we'll have a conversation like rational magical beings. We can even play chess."

"I am not interested in your games."

"Of course you aren't. You never were." He sighed. "Stay in the darkness if you must. It will not help your attempt to attack me. My defense are…a _bit _stronger than that."

"Why would I ever attack a simple seller of games?" the smooth voice asked.

He snorted. "Perhaps because you're still searching for the ultimate power, or some such silly thing. Or maybe you've finally gone insane."

Magic crackled in the air dangerously, and Gellert could practically taste it.

"You would know," the other replied after a moment.

Gellert snorted. "My soul remains in the same condition in which it was given to me, which is more then I can say for you, Tom," he replied calmly. "I've never chosen to muck with my soul. My sanity—and my follies—are my own."

"You ignored power even when you knew how to find it," the contemptuous voice retorted. "Your foolish obsession with the Deathly Hallows came to naught."

"As did my most cherished friendship, and that was what brought me down in the end," he replied bluntly. "Not that I expect you to understand that."

"Friendship is weakness!"

He sighed. How many times had they had this conversation in the few short years they had known one another? The ambitious boy Tom Riddle had been was a far cry from the monster who now visited Pendulum Games, but Gellert could sense the same arrogance, the same anger, and the same inability to understand anything he did not view as _useful _in the pursuit of power.

"Of course it is," he said with a slight smile. He'd once thought to teach the boy; only too late had he realized the type of man Riddle would grow to be. _Fortunate, then, that I went down when I did. Else I might have taught him _too _much. _"Why are you here? Was the pleasure of meeting an old friend simply too great to resist?"

A wordless hiss greeted the taunt, but no attack was forthcoming. _Good. So he does not want a battle._ But that did not answer the important question.

"I imagine you want something. You are not the type to make social calls, after all. As you pointed out."

Keeping the relief out of his voice was hard, though Gellert thought he managed well enough. He was getting _old_, after all, and though he wore his years (even the extra ones) well enough, he was hardly fit enough for a full-scale battle against the reigning Dark Wizard. His duel with Dumbledore had been hailed as the greatest Wizarding duel of all time, but they'd both been young, been in their prime. Times had changed, and a long stint in the prison _he'd _built left him rather rusty. _Although I am quite certain that I could give Tom more of a run for his money than he wants, which is probably why he's refraining from attacking me, _he thought with another smile. _This _is _more a social call than he wants to admit._

"I came to make you an offer," the other replied after a moment. "One well worth considering."

There was definitely an implied threat in the last sentence, but Gellert ignored it to reply cheerfully: "Shall I join with you and make the world a better place? Exterminate the Muggleborns and the Halfbloods—and anyone who disagrees with you, just for good measure—in the name of the Greater Good?" He chuckled ruefully. "Is that what you want, Tom?"

"That is not my name," the younger wizard replied, though his anger came out coldly now. "And I await your response, Gellert."

"Oh, that's simple enough. I refuse."

"You _what_?"

_It's a shame that more people didn't say no to you as you grew up, Tom_, he thought with a bit of regret. _You might not be so surprised now._ The urge to laugh was almost overwhelming, but he bit the giggles back.

"I refuse. I'm hardly any danger to you—not an old man who makes a meager living selling games to magical children—and I rather like my retirement." Finally, he turned to look into the red eyes and smiled.

"You are a fool. You would refuse a partnership to sell _games_?"

"No." His smile disappeared. "I would refuse your so-called partnership—a concept that would never hold, not with you and I—because my beliefs have never been the same as yours. What I believed—and still do, despite my happy and quaint retirement here—is not something I will taint in this manner.

"Besides which, my part in the Greater Game is…well, if not finished, at least at a pause. This is your round, Tom. Play it well."

* * *

oooo-oooo-oooo

* * *

**The 912th Day: May 14, 1984 **

She'd been running her new group for two months, and things were quickly increasing to a pace Lily almost found hard to balance with being a wife and mother. Although they'd originally been without a name more interesting than the 'Experimental Charms Committee', Warren Stormchaser had quickly nicknamed them the Unicorn Group, and the moniker had stuck. Why he'd chosen such a name remained a mystery to Lily, though it was the cause of much snickering between Warren, Katie Belby, and Hera Johnson. The best she could guess was that the nickname referenced something from their Hogwarts days.

Either way, Lily's head was spinning from all the work. She'd been too accustomed to having _no _work, apparently, and no matter how much she relished the challenge, it was a big change. So, she decided to take some time to herself, and upon leaving Hogwarts, she knew just how to do it.

Remus, of course, disagreed, but Lily hadn't married James because she was good at taking no for an answer. She'd have cursed him six ways to Sunday years ago if she'd not been as stubborn as he was, which was what led her and Remus down to the Hog's Head for lunch.

Fifteen minutes of idle conversation and Remus fidgeting later, Lily could take no more.

"Really, Remus. It's not like you can't use the secret passageway to be back in just a few minutes, and Albus knows where you are. I told him I was going to steal you before I left."

He scowled, but Lily could tell that his grumpiness was only half-hearted. "I could be grading papers right now," Remus grumbled.

"Or you could be enjoying lunch with an old friend," she replied with a smile.

"Or there's that."

"Eat your lunch," she wheedled. "Hogwarts will still be there when you get back."

"It would be hard to make the school disappear, yeah. By which I mean completely—the Muggle Repelling Charms don't count," he said with a returning smile.

Lily had already opened her mouth to point out the last part, but she closed it with a snap. Of all of James' friends, Remus had always been the most academically inclined; back in their Hogwarts days, she'd run into him studying in the library all the time.

"I forgot why they used to call you Professor Moony," she said after a moment, and watched him flush. "Oh, don't get modest on me, Remus. Professor Dumbledore says you're a marvelous teacher."

He reddened further, but the words came out very softly. "I'm just glad to be given the chance."

"No one deserved it more," Lily responded immediately, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

Her fingers had barely brushed his when the world exploded.

* * *

oooo-oooo-oooo

* * *

_The Potters were meaningless. Or perhaps I have marginalized them. Regardless, they no longer matter._

The words were almost therapeutic to write, something he found…strange. However, putting them to paper cleared his mind, which was the goal of this exercise.

_Logically speaking, since they no longer matter, their Secret Keeper is superfluous. I do not require him. Logically speaking, I should kill him._

_But I find that I must break him or leave my work undone. So, in revenge for my wasted time, I will turn him into my tool. If he will not join me willingly, I __will__ use him._

_One way or another._

* * *

oooo-oooo-oooo

* * *

The last person James expected to run into was Severus Snape.

Having rolled out of the fireplace in Dumbledore's office and sprinted towards the Hospital Wing, James full-on collided with the Potions Master on his way through the door. His wand was in his hand immediately, and had Dumbledore not appeared, somehow pushing James' arm down just in time, he would have cursed the Death Eater straight to Hell.

Oddly enough, Snape did not even have his wand in hand.

"What the hell are you doing here?" James snarled. "Coming to see if your work is done—?"

"James!" Dumbledore had not let go of him, which was probably a good thing. "Severus and Lily are old friends, as you well know. He came here to check on her. He was _not _part of the attack."

"How do you know that?" James demanded, his heart still racing. Its pounding had not stopped since the owl from McGonagall had arrived in the window of the house at Godric's Hollow, bearing the simple words:

_Lily and Remus were attacked in Hogsmeade. They are both at Hogwarts. Hurry._

Hurry. James had been trying to do just that, but now a _sneering _Severus Snape was still in his path.

"I would hardly waste my time on such—" Snape began.

"Severus," Dumbledore cut him off gently. "Perhaps you should leave us, now."

"Of course, Headmaster." But the acquiescence did not stop Snape from shooting a glare James' way before departing; however, the other wizard hardly noticed.

"How are—" James gulped back his fears. "I have to see them."

Dumbledore nodded calmly but still did not release him. "Where is Harry, James?"

The unrelated question made James blink. "He's—he's with Professor McGonagall. I brought him because nowhere else is safe."

"Good," the old wizard replied, and it took all of James' self control not to glare at him. _Do you think I'm such an idiot that I'd endanger my _son_? Lily would never forgive me!_

The thought hit like cold water.

_Lily._

_Lily and Remus._

"Please, professor," he whispered, terrified by Dumbledore's inexplicable hesitation. "I need to see them."

"Of course, James. Please forgive the delay."

He'd forgive anything so long as he could get to their bedsides _now_.

Dumbledore stepped aside, gesturing James to the right. From that direction, he could hear voices now that he'd stopped shouting, many more voices than he was accustomed to hearing in the Hogwarts' Hospital Wing. Wooden legs carried him around the corner, and James almost stopped cold once he caught sight of what was happening.

At least three healers surrounded each bed, and both Lily and Remus were paler than many ghosts James knew—they looked more like corpses than living beings, and from what he could tell, neither was breathing steadily. Spells crisscrossed in the air; none of the medics even looked up as James approached, and it was Dumbledore who pulled him to a halt at the foot of Lily's bed.

"My brother, the proprietor of the Hog's Head, called in Alastor Moody and the Aurors the moment the attack began—those two play chess together quite often. Alastor and Aberforth brought all of the victims here and called in healers from St. Mungo's," the headmaster explained quietly.

James nodded numbly. Yet his trained mind was still functional beneath the shock, and he had to ask:

"How many?"

"Eighteen survivors, counting Lily and Remus. Seven of them are grievously wounded, as you can tell from their presence here. But there are close to a dozen dead."

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to nod. "Do we know who the target was?"

"Not yet, no."

James closed his eyes, guilt welling up. _I should never have let her leave today. Dumbledore was right when he told us that we had to hide. Two and a half years hasn't changed anything, and you should _know _that, Prongs! _He shuddered, swallowing again. His voice came out as a pained whisper.

"But you think it was Lily."

"Or Remus," Dumbledore replied softly. "They'd gone into Hogsmeade for a quick lunch, James. No one knew they were there. You cannot blame yourself."

_The hell I can't._ But he didn't voice that thought; instead, he asked the question whose answer he had been dreading. "Will they be all right?"

"Poppy believes so. For now, though, all we can do is wait."

He'd heard those words from Dumbledore one too many times, but James was too drained by worry to reply.

* * *

oooo-oooo-oooo

* * *

"I'm _fine_, Mum," Bill said quietly, tugging on his earring before he could stop himself. Doing so had always been a nervous habit, and now that he was an Auror, the last thing he wanted to look like was a hyperactive child.

"Of course you are, dear. Let me just take a look at you."

Maybe coming home was a bad idea. His mother was fussing over Bill like he was Ginny's age, casting diagnostic spells and cleaning spells and lord-knew-what else. He could accept her worry, as she'd never wanted him to become an Auror in the first place, but once she cast the same diagnostic spell for the fourth time, his patience got a little strained.

"Really, Mum. I didn't even get a scratch. The Death Eaters ran almost as soon as we got there—they usually do that when Moody shows up, unless they outnumber us by an awful lot."

Molly Weasley sighed. "And I'm not certain I approve of you following that—that _maniac _about. He's dangerous, Bill."

"Of course he is," Bill grinned before he could stop himself. "To Death Eaters."

"Bill!"

He sighed. "And he's my Mentor, Mum. It's not like I have a choice in the matter. I'll be with him until he says I'm ready to go out on my own."

"And when will that be?"

Not for the first time, Bill really wished his father was not at work. Bill had a rare afternoon off—after the cleanup in the Hog's Head, Moody had told all the Aurors to get lost and not show up on Avalon again until the next morning (which in Bill's case, meant he had to find his Mentor before heading back, just as his classmate Amanda Pieters had to find Ernie Jordan)—but his father was still at the Ministry.

"Whenever Moody says, pretty much," he replied with a shrug. "Probably another six months or so."

"That's faster than usual," his mother objected with a frown. "I don't recall—"

Bill cut her off before she could get a good worry going. "It is faster. But we're at war, Mum. Look at it this way: I'm getting lots of hands-on experience."

Fortunately, years of experience prepared him for the bone-crushing hug, but he'd never been so grateful to his younger sister as when Ginny toddled in, babbling about some stuffed animal or another that Fred had stolen.

* * *

oooo-oooo-oooo

* * *

"I am so sorry, Remus."

Lily's soft voice startled James out of his doze, making him sit up so fast that he almost fell out of his chair. He'd been in the Hospital Wing for hours, only allowed to stay because he'd sworn up, down, and sideways to Madam Pomfrey that he'd not wake either his wife or his friend up under _any _circumstances. But now Lily was awake, and so was Remus—and if James didn't know better, they'd both been making faces at him.

"Stop it," his friend replied crossly. "We went to lunch. You didn't hold my feet to the fire or a wand in my face. We went to _lunch_." Remus' voice sounded hoarse and a bit pained, but his face was composed.

Lily had reddened a bit, and turned to her husband to avoid rehashing an argument that they'd clearly already gone through. "Hi, James."

"Lily," he breathed, reaching out to grasp her hand. "That was—"

"Close, I know," she cut him off. "Stupid. Rash. Unnecessary."

"I was going to say 'scary as all hell'," James interrupted before she could berate herself further, forcing his voice to remain casual. "Along with 'shit happens'." He swallowed hard, and took her hand. "We're at war. Like Dumbledore said, we don't even know if they targeted you."

"You're not angry?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"No. I can't be. How many times did you piece me back together when I came home as a busted Auror?"

Besides, he was too relieved to be angry.

"A lot," Lily answered wanly.

"Good." James twisted to face Remus. "And don't _you_ blame yourself either, Moony. I know you. This isn't your fault any more than it's hers."

Remus' mouth had opened the moment James turned to him, and it hung open as James spoke—and then snapped shut with a click.

"Shut up," he finally groused.

"I'm glad you're okay, too, Moony." James managed a sunny smile, but he was boiling with anger inside now that the relief was fading a bit. _Things are only getting worse. Since when can five Death Eaters walk into a pub and kill _thirteen _people without anyone doing anything?_ While he'd been hiding at Godric's Hollow, the world had grown much darker—and James had done nothing.

"Thanks, Prongs," Remus said softly. He said something else to Lily, but James was hardly listening. He was too busy thinking, too busy _realizing_. Something had to be done.

He'd been hiding for too long, so long that he allowed himself to become complacent. For some reason, James had assumed—_And you know what they say about _assumptions_, Prongs—_that the situation outside of his safe home had to be improving. After all, his family was safe. Surely others were also finding safety…except they weren't. They couldn't. This attack had proven that Voldemort was only growing more bold, and fighting him was growing harder. Again, the thought wormed its way into his consciousness, cold and deadly. Something had to be done.

And he was going to do it. Somehow.

"James?" Lily prompted him, and James belatedly realized that she'd said his name at least twice.

"Yeah? Sorry. I was woolgathering."

"Clearly. I was going to ask if Professor McGonagall was going to have to stand in the hallway for hours, or if you plan on bringing my munchkin over to me any time soon," she replied dryly.

"Oh! I—" He barely managed not to swear, but Remus clearly saw the look on his face as James yanked his mind out of darker thoughts and back to his three year old.

"What she's really asking, Prongs, is if you want to sleep on the couch for the rest of the year," Remus translated. "Because it's a safe bet that that'll happen if you don't get off your daft arse and go get Harry right now."

"I'm going, I'm going!" James laughed his way over to his old head of house, but even as he laughed, the determination did not fade.

Maybe not today. Maybe not even tomorrow. But he was going to find a way to do _something_.

* * *

oooo-oooo-oooo

* * *

**Author's Note:** It's alive! My New Year's resolution is to finish this story; I managed to lose a huge (30+ pages) chunk that I had handwritten, which caused the delay, but now I've found it and am ready to roll again. I have also embarked on the Giant UU Update Project, which will bring PU, PR, and PD in line with canon through Book 7.

Stick around for Chapter 12: "The First Battle of Hogwarts", in which Voldemort rolls the dice, Snape avoids changing sides, and I insert a _Firefly _reference. In the meantime, please review!


	13. Chapter 12: The First Battle of Hogwarts

**Chapter Twelve: The First Battle of Hogwarts

* * *

**

**The 1,082nd Day: October 31, 1984 **

In another time, this day would have been the third anniversary of the Wizarding World's so-called greatest victory. There would have been shouting in the streets, parties, and ecstatic celebrations by those who would otherwise be dead. There would have been fireworks and sweets, drinks and all the food people could eat. There would have been happiness and relief, with just a little feeling of incredulity, a sense of having dodged the curse, so to speak. And there would have been a lonely boy shut up by himself, dreaming of a family and a home he _should _have had.

But not this year.

This October 31st was no anniversary. It was a landmark.

Remus woke up with Dumbledore's voice in his ear shortly after one in the morning.

"All teachers report to the astronomy tower immediately. Hogwarts is under attack."

He was on his feet and throwing robes on before the last four words completely sank in—and then Remus froze in shock. _Hogwarts_ was under attack? For almost a thousand years, the school had repelled each and every threat, and no one had even attempted to attack the school for over half that time. Even Voldemort would not dare! He wasn't that foolish, was he?

Nausea welled up in Remus' stomach; if there was anything he knew about the Dark Lord, it was that he never attacked when he did not think he had a reasonable chance of winning. Dumbledore knew that, too, which explained the hint of strain in his voice the magically-carried announcement could not hide. Remus had never seen the headmaster frightened, had hardly thought it possible, but somehow he knew that Dumbledore's heart pounded as wildly as his own, and that this was going to be the longest night of their lives.

He was almost right.

The longer ones would only come later.

* * *

When faced with the option of rooming on Avalon or staying at the Burrow, Bill had understandably chosen Avalon. He loved his home and his parents—and always would—but the Burrow was small enough already, and his parents really did need the room for the other kids. Bill _could _have paid for a flat with his salary as an Auror, of course, but that would have robbed Moody of the opportunity to barge into his room in the middle of the night.

"Get up, Weasley!" the wooden-legged Auror roared as he came through the door, pushing through Bill's wards with a simple sweep of his wand. "Time's a'wasting!"

"Huh?" Bill blinked groggily, but was pleased to see that his wand was in his hand and pointed in his mentor's general direction. He had no expectation of being attacked on the Auror's secret island (another reason he chose to live there between missions), but Moody would never have forgiven him if he'd slacked off for even a moment.

"Hogwarts is under attack, boy-o, and we're riding off to the rescue like heroes." _Thump._ _Thump. _Moody was at the wardrobe already and flinging clothes towards Bill as he half-rolled, half-fell out of bed.

He must have heard wrong. Grogginess was affecting his hearing comprehension, and his still sleep-befuddled mind had misinterpreted Moody's words in the worst possible manner.

"Hogwarts is _what_?" he managed to ask as the news sank in, one leg in his trousers and one still out.

"Under attack. Are you deaf, Weasley? Time to move. 'Bella's getting the others, but you and I are the advance guard." Step. _Thump._

Bill stared. "_Just _us? Are you mad?" The words came out before he could stop them, but Moody just arched his good eyebrow. There was almost a _grin _on his scarred face. "Nevermind. Don't answer that."

His mentor barked out a laugh. "Now you're thinking. Let's go. And _get that wand back out!"_

Foolishly, Bill had tucked his wand into its customary place in his robes; Moody's shout made him jump and pull it back out again. They were on Avalon, of course, which meant only Aurors had access to the island—but Moody's creed was constant vigilance, and Bill understood that it didn't pay to take chances. Still, he had to ask as they headed out of the instructor wing of the Main Villa:

"Why do you look so _happy_?" He'd been in combat with Moody before, and his mentor never looked this cheerful.

"Voldemort's picked on Dumbledore. That's stupid, especially doing it on Albus' own turf. And if we can get there soon enough, maybe between him and I, we can take that rat bastard down once and for all."

Hearing those words almost made Bill stop and stare, and his heart did a backflip in his chest. _Does Moody really think—?_ The pair had covered half of the distance to the Secondary Apparation Center before Bill managed to find his voice again.

"Aren't we going to Floo there?"

Step. _Thump_. Moody shot him a glare. "Dumbledore's got the school locked down. Voldemort knows the castle too well. Nothing gets in, and nothing out. We've got to go the hard way."

"Though Hogsmeade or the Forbidden Forest." Bill's heart sank.

"Now you're thinking. Hurry up, boy-o! If my one-wooden-pegged self can outrun your young legs, we're going to be worse off than I thought."

Bill hadn't fallen more than a half step behind, but he quickened his pace, anyway. "It's going to take us a long time to get there," he pointed out worriedly.

"Not too long, it won't," Moody replied darkly.

* * *

Remus was one of the first professors to reach the Astronomy Tower; in fact, only Dumbledore and McGonagall had beaten him there. She was in mid-sentence:

"…and all the common room entranceways have been secured. I've informed the prefects to keep order. The students will be safe, Albus."

"Thank you, Minerva." The headmaster's voice was far quieter than Remus remembered ever having heard it, and his eyes were focused far off into the distance, where Remus could see lights beginning to flicker against the dark horizon.

He stepped up next to McGonagall for a better view and winced. Shadows stood out against the lights—spells, Remus realized, probing the castle's defenses. And he did not have to guess who those shadows belonged to.

Dumbledore did not turn, though McGonagall nodded tensely in greeting. The headmaster, however, continued staring out into the darkness, his blue eyes and expression alert. Still, he looked almost _relaxed, _standing there against the parapet of the castle's tallest tower and waiting for his enemy to approach.

"I've contacted Alastor Moody," McGonagall added after a moment. "It will take time for the Aurors to get here, but we're not on our own."

"I don't think we'll have that much time, Minerva." Dumbledore's wand flicked up briefly. "He's here."

"Voldemort?" she asked, stuttering slightly.

"Yes."

Remus shivered, but forced his voice to be level. "What can I do?"

McGonagall shot him a surprised look, but Dumbledore did not twitch; Remus half wondered if the headmaster had even noticed he was there. Dumbledore's entire attention seemed riveted on the distant figures. But no. Dumbledore _always _knew—he was simply distracted.

Still, neither responded before other professors, led by Snape, pounded up the stairs. For a moment, Remus was surprised to see the Potions Master, but he forced the thought aside. If Dumbledore was wrong about where Snape's loyalties laid, they'd find out soon enough, and it was too late to do anything about that now.

"Wait and hope, Remus," the headmaster replied with a sideways glance and a twinkle in his eyes.

_How can he quote _The Count of Monte Cristo _at a moment like this?_

Remus spent all of his considerable self control keeping his jaw from dropping open, and thus lost his chance to speak before Snape got in.

"Where do you want us, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore finally seemed to notice the others, but he still answered without ever taking his eyes off of the approaching shadows. "I would like for you, Minerva, and Remus to remain here with me. Everyone else, go to the students and keep them safe."

Some of Remus' colleagues—particularly those who had spent years longer at Hogwarts than Remus and Severus combined—muttered in protest, but McGonagall shooed them away with a scowl. She saw them to the stairway even as Snape stepped up close to Dumbledore—and to Remus, who wasn't sure he wanted him there—to hiss: "He's brought far more than four Death Eaters, Headmaster. _These _two can't hold that many off."

"And you, Severus?" One silver eyebrow rose.

Snape snorted bitterly. "He does not wish to burn my credibility with you. I am yours. Tonight."

"So he does not think he will win, then?" Dumbledore asked lightly, but Remus heard no hope in his voice.

"I do not know. I believe he does—but he plays both ends against the middle. Perhaps Lucius knows what he plans, but I do not. I am not _that _trusted."

"Pity," McGonagall muttered under her breath, and Remus had to suppress a very inappropriate smile.

Snape, however, was obviously not finding anything amusing. "My point _stands_, Albus. You cannot fight dozens of Death Eaters with three professors. Nor even with allof the professors. And he is _counting _on that."

Dumbledore chuckled. "So am I, Severus. So am I."

The ground shook, and Remus heard a distant rumble.

"He's discovered the first line," McGonagall said softly. "I think it is time, Albus."

"Do so."

Much to Remus' surprise, McGonagall spoke the word of power while Dumbledore continued to stare. To his right, Snape jerked up in shock, which at least made Remus grateful that he wasn't the only one caught off guard.

A split second later, the enhanced wards sunk into place; Remus could _feel _the environment around Hogwarts change. He'd studied words of power since learning that Hogwarts' deeper defenses were keyed to one, but this was the first time he had been able to see the use of such higher magic. The sheer power in the air sent a shiver racing down his spine, and he could see that Snape had been affected in the same way.

Even the Potions Master sucked in a sharp breath, and McGonagall's face betrayed slight surprise.

"The rest is up to you, Albus," she said quietly.

Silence.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Even the Death Eaters stopped assaulting the wards; the night became still. Empty. Dark.

Remus desperately wanted to believe that such a power frightened Voldemort away, but he was not such a—

_Crack._

Was that thunder, or was that power filling the air?

Whatever it was, it was in no way associated to the magic McGonagall had just worked; Remus could feel that power lying over Hogwarts like a shield, and the new tension in the air came from something else.

"You don't mean to fight him at all, do you?" he asked without meaning to.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Not at all, my dear boy. Or at least not immediately. Severus is right. There are too Death Eaters for a handful of professors to face. We will wait for the Aurors, assuming there is enough time. Until then, I have no intention of engaging Lord Voldemort in a duel. To do so would be the height of foolishness."

_Boom._

The ground shook again. And then once more, even more violently; for a moment, Remus felt the very stones beneath his feet shifting.

"What _is _that?" Snape finally asked, his voice nervous and higher pitched than usual.

For once, Remus was in full agreement with the Death Eater.

Unexpectedly, Dumbledore flinched slightly before answering. "Power. Voldemort understands what has been done to protect Hogwarts, and he knows that ordinary spells will not break through the wards. Instead, he is trying to batter his way through with sheer power."

Another _boom._

Remus' teeth rattled in his skull.

"Will it work?" he asked when no one else would.

"It would, were someone else here," Dumbledore answered evenly, but now there was obvious strain in his voice.

"Be careful, Albus," McGonagall said softly, laying a hand on his arm.

The smile the headmaster shot her somehow buoyed Remus' confidence. "Of course."

_BOOM._

The sound came louder this time, and now the shadows were so close that Remus could make out individual Death Eater masks. They moved back and forth impatiently, sometimes shooting ineffective spells at the wards, and often dodging when the magic bounced back at them. Indeed, there seemed to be a literal line in the sand they could not cross; Death Eaters who tried to come within one hundred feet of the walls were blasted back by amber bursts of power.

Dumbledore held his wand loosely in his right hand, but Remus had not seen him lift it save for that first time. He had _never _seen power employed like this, never dreamed of it—and yet Remus instinctively knew that even Dumbledore could not keep this up forever. James and Sirius had told him several years ago that Aurors were discouraged from studying what Voldemort had done to transform himself into the dangerously powerful wizard he had become, but they knew that he had somehow _changed _himself. In doing so, Voldemort had damaged his soul…but Dumbledore had done no such thing.

So where was he getting this power _from_?

_BOOM._

The tower trembled, shifting left, then too far to the right, and then finally back again. Remus stumbled and caught McGonagall's arm to keep her from falling even as he regained his own balance. Dumbledore was leaning heavily on the parapet now; McGonagall had been thrown away from him as the tower convulsed.

"Headmaster?" she asked worriedly. Dumbledore did not answer.

The wards…_shivered_.

Twitched.

Buckled—

Impossible as it was, Remus felt the primeval power weaken—and then, just as suddenly, something older and deeper rushed up to strengthen the wards.

"What are you doing?" he demanded worriedly.

At the same time, McGonagall reached for Dumbledore's arm again. "Albus—"

"Don't." He dodged her hands, his eyes never leaving the distant shadows.

"Albus!" the shock in her voice _hurt_.

"I am not safe right now," Dumbledore clarified tightly.

"Headmaster, what _is _this?" Remus asked urgently. He did not have to specify what he was talking about. Dumbledore knew.

_BOOM._

The stones rumbled again before the headmaster answered:

"Hogwarts," he said heavily, "will always be protected."

"That doesn't say anything!" Snape snapped.

Except it did. Remus just wasn't sure what.

"You should leave now. All three of you."

"No." Remus was not surprised to hear McGonagall's voice join his own, but Snape's refusal was a bit unexpected. Was he truly that loyal to Dumbledore, or had Voldemort ordered him to witness everything?

"Very well." Dumbledore sounded a little relieved, but his next orders forestalled McGonagall's renewed attempt to move to his side.

"Stay back. The power moving through me is dangerous for others to be exposed to."

"And you?" she demanded primly.

Dumbledore sighed. "And I."

_Crunch_.

The unexpected sound made Remus jump; rocks and pieces of the Astronomy Tower were chipping and crumbling away, raining down on the courtyard below. They were only small pieces, at the moment, but the vibrations beneath Remus' feet were growing increasingly violent.

"The tower will hold," the headmaster said confidently, seeming to read his mind.

"Only so long as _you _do," Snape pointed out acidly.

McGonagall scowled, but her response was lost in a sudden burst of wind.

_Cold_ wind.

_BOOM._

Dumbledore staggered, barely catching himself. But then the old wizard smiled.

"Lord Voldemort is playing with forces he cannot control," he said between gusts of freezing wind. "He'll soon find—"

"He doesn't have to control it!" Snape cut him off, shouting to be heard over the howling wind. "All he has to do is unleash the power and make _you _stop it!"

Dumbledore's eyes went wide.

* * *

Bill had never been one to sneak about after hours, which meant that though he was aware of the existence of Hogwarts' secret passageways, he'd never known much about them. Accordingly, he'd never have figured that Apparating into the Three Broomsticks would be the quickest way to reach the school; left on his own, he would have appeared in the Forbidden Forest and sprinted his way in. Moody, however, seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

Still, even someone as socially graceless as Moody should have remembered that Apparating into the middle of a crowded tavern was not the best way to go about business.

Someone screamed.

Someone shouted "_Stupefy!"_

A table to Bill's right exploded, showering both Aurors in sparks and splinters.

"Damn foolish civilians —"

"Get down!" Bill interrupted Moody's ranting, yanking his partner to the floor.

They hit with a crash, spells crisscrossing in the air over their heads.

"_Stupefy!"_

"_Impedimenta!"_

"_Furnunculus !"_

The last curse hit Bill and boils immediately erupted all over his body, which was an annoyance, but in no way incapacitating—if one could ignore the raging _itch_. Moody's wooden leg slammed into the floor in frustration. _"Protego!"_

The shield charm shot out and made the air around the pair shimmer.

"Stop it, you fools!" the senior Auror bellowed. He turned briefly to Bill, leveling his wand impatiently. "_Finite Incantatem. _We're Aurors. How many peg-legged, one-eyed Death Eaters do you think Voldemort _has_?"

Terrified silence fell at the mention of that name.

"Thanks," Bill breathed as he and Moody clambered to their feet. Moody only grunted and glared at the crowd.

"Now," he said briskly, "I suggest you all go _home._ Now. Voldemort's at Hogwarts, and this is a bit too close to the school for comfortable card games and firewhiskey. Get you gone before some _actual _Death Eaters eat you soft lot for dinner."

Bill hardly had a chance to blink before the room was empty.

"C'mon, you," his partner ordered, leading the way towards the back of the Three Broomsticks.

"You didn't have to scare them quite that badly," he said softly.

Moody scowled. "Scared is good. Scared is careful, boy. Now they'll go home and let us do the real work."

"If you say so."

Bill followed obediently as the other Auror thumped his way towards the back room, yanking the door open with a sudden grin. "Time to go be heroes, boy-o."

"I thought you said that heroes got themselves killed," Bill objected.

"Never said we wouldn't now, did I?"

* * *

The next gust of wind was anything but; a wave of dark power reared up out of the night, striking Dumbledore head-on and throwing him backwards. He did not cry out, but Remus saw his body convulse as the Headmaster went down, and he thought he heard something _crack._

"Albus!" McGonagall bolted forward and almost touched him before Snape caught her arm.

Dumbledore coughed; Remus thought he saw blood spray from his mouth as the headmaster climbed painfully to his feet. "I am fine, Minerva."

"The hell you are!" she retorted angrily.

A moment passed before Remus realized that he'd never before heard her swear.

But Dumbledore flashed her a tired smile even as Snape shouted:

"Look out! _Protego!_"

A second wave of power almost struck harder than the first. Had Snape's shield not slowed the onslaught, Remus was certain Dumbledore would have gone down again. The headmaster's shield followed a split second later, silent but far more powerful.

The blackness dissipated even as the tower shook again.

_BOOM._

The sound was louder, now; Remus' teeth chattered reflexively.

"He's gaining—" McGonagall started to say as the third wave roared in—

_Cold._

Dumbledore parried the attack but clearly almost missed the fourth. Then everything happened at once. McGonagall shouted a shield charm to slow it, but the fifth wave destroyed her defense and hammered her into the ground. Snape tried to catch her and failed; Remus was too busy interposing his own shield to help.

"_Contegorum!" _he tried. Sirius had taught him the Aurors' most powerful shield charm years ago, and it held now, though Remus staggered under the pressure of holding the shield in place. Between that and Dumbledore, the sixth wave was completely deflected, and then—

_Cold._

Icy hands shout out of the darkness, reaching for Dumbledore's arms, Dumbledore's face. Suddenly, Remus was shivering, and even though he was a half dozen feet away, his shaking fingers kept trying to drop his wand. _So cold._

_Claws ripping into his face—_

Someone screamed, somewhere. Sometime.

He'd been a normal boy until that night, and then never again until Dumbledore…

_Dumbledore needs me._

Willpower overrode fear.

"_Expecto Patronum!" _Remus shouted. He did not have to cast about for a suitably meaningful thought—his had always been the same: four friends. That memory was all that mattered.

Another voice echoed the words a moment later, and Remus was surprised to see Snape's doe join his wolf.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_ McGonagall's cat sprang to life as she lurched to her feet, and suddenly the cold retreated.

"He has Dementors," Remus panted rather uselessly.

"Admirable observation, Lupin!" Snape snapped, his voice tight with fear.

"The important question is _how_," McGonagall interrupted. "Did you know, Albus?"

"No." Dumbledore's body was shuddering over and over again; he seemed unable to stop. "Severus?"

"Rumors only."

"I see." Finally, Dumbledore's wand came up, leveled on something only he could see. "Seal the castle, Minerva. The wards will not keep them out."

"I don't think—"

"We must protect the students from the Demenetors," he cut her off. "And the three of you should go. Otherwise you will be locked out as well."

"No." Again, the three spoke in unison; Remus exchanged a slightly surprised look with Snape, but the Death Eater's face was pale and determined.

"We won't leave you, Headmaster," Remus finished quietly.

"You are _not _doing this alone," McGonagall emphasized quietly. "So stop arguing, Albus. _Colligum_ _Omni_. The castle is sealed."

She stepped up next to Dumbledore again, steadying his still shuddering body with a hand on his side. "We will help you however we can," she whispered. "Now save Hogwarts."

* * *

Author's Note: Please do check out the new UU Forums here on FFN (accessible from my profile page). If you're not already a member of the Yahoo Group, I'll be posting details there as I commence the UU Update project. Until then, please review, and stick around for Chapter 13: "No Longer Hiding", in which the battle continues, and James Potter makes a choice that will change the world.


	14. Chapter 13: No Longer Hiding

**_Chapter Thirteen: No Longer Hiding_

* * *

**

**The 1,082nd Day: October 31, 1984 **

"Son of a bloated House Elf!"

Moody slapped his hand against the closed door again, growling furiously. He and Bill had reached the Hogwarts end of the secret passageway leading from the Three Broomsticks, only to find the way out sealed shut by magic neither could overcome. Bill was an excellent curse breaker and could recognize the multi-layered seals and wards on the passageway's exit, but without hours of careful study and even longer to work on the problem, there was no way they were getting into the castle. Especially since the password Moody knew no longer worked.

"Damn it all. Things must be worse than I thought." Moody's wand came up, and a muttered incantation later, a silver disk sped away from them. "I sent McGonagall a message. Here's to hoping she gets it in time to matter worth a damn."

"Why McGonagall?" Bill asked, his throat suddenly tight. _There's no way he thinks that Dumbledore is… _He could not bring himself to finish that thought.

"Albus'll be busy enough without a grouchy Auror trying to ruin his day."

Bill let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

_Boom._

The entire castle seemed to shake; even the stone floor beneath their feet shifted. Bill shivered, feeling the oppressive force of powers in use pushing down on where they waited. The diagnostic spells he'd cast on the passageway were still feeding him information, and Bill could almost feel the battle raging not too far away.

Seconds ticked by in slow motion.

Even Moody fidgeted.

They were stuck in a passageway while Hogwarts battled for its life.

* * *

* * *

The news was all over the Wizarding World by the end of the first half hour, and to give the Minister of Magic credit, she did not waste time dithering or wringing her hands in disbelief. Orders went out to the Aurors immediately, (though Arabella Figg had no intention of mentioning that she'd known about the attack long before her own boss had), and even the Hit Wizards were dispatched. But only the Aurors knew the back way into the school—and only then because Figg had the presence of mind to call up her one-time student and bring him along for the ride.

After all, they both knew that a victory at Hogwarts would make Voldemort supreme—Dumbledore and the school were the Wizarding World's two most important symbols, and if both fell, the safety of one or two families would no longer matter.

A Hogwarts veteran, James took the Aurors through the Hog's Head and into the Room of Requirement, which promptly dumped their entire task force in the passageway outside the statue of Gregory the Smarmy.

"This isn't right…" James trailed off, frowning. 'Bella shot him a glare as he hesitated, and he could almost hear his former comrades wondering if James Potter had lost his touch and suddenly feared his return to combat. But still he waited, glancing around as his mind raced.

"We don't have time for this, James!" 'Bella spat. "Dumbledore will take the highest point, and that is—"

"The Astronomy Tower, I know," he cut her off. "But the Room of Requirement should be on the seventh floor, not on the third—and _that _means there's someone in that passageway."

"What?"

James leveled his wand at the statue, suddenly possessing the other Aurors' undivided attention.

"It's called the Room of _Requirement _for a reason, 'Bella. I've never know it to move before, but if it has, well…fancy a dance with some sneaky Death Eaters, boss?"

* * *

* * *

Looking at the chess board, he finally let the sigh escape. Surely the signs were there for anyone to see—why was _he _the only one who paid heed to the Greater Game? Even Dumbledore did not understand what was afoot—he had that by Dumbledore's own admission, even if the fool was off witnessing events he knew he could not change.

Pendulum Games was quiet in the before dawn hours; he supposed that he should have been safe in his bed, undisturbed by the absence of his sometime-house guest. Where his old friend spent the rest of his time, "Mr. Bishop" did not know; he supposed _he_ was off trying to save the world from within the shadows, playing puppet master to the puppet master.

_Typical._

He stared at the chessboard, and sighed again. The move was not one Grindelwald would have chosen, but staring at the board, he knew that Dumbledore was a clever bastard for having made the concession. The white bishop had only moved one square, and the piece neither took a red counterpart nor left the white section of board protected. Red would carry the next section of the game, that much was clear, and to the unschooled eye, red had the path to both white kings. But the eyes watching the game were far from unschooled, and he saw the narrow little path Dumbledore had opened.

Now he had only to make his way down that path without being consumed. Grindelwald hoped his faith in his friend wasn't misplaced. And he hoped (and, though he'd never admit it, prayed), that he was wrong when he saw that the major white king might never make it out of harm's way.

One piece, one square. That was it.

The game was done for the night—for the year, perhaps. But _this _was the moment where events began to shift, and Dark Wizard though he had been, he did not relish the transition. _This _was not what he had wanted, and though it felt strange to mourn the retreating light, he understood his own part in this affair…at least as matters presently stood.

But at least he could enjoy himself in the meantime. He'd only promised to _behave_, not to have no fun at all.

Quill scratched on parchment.

_Dear Albus,_

_March 5__th__ of 1987 would be a good day for what you know you need to do. There is a lovely little shop at 72 High Street in Oxford, named Pendulum Games. The proprietor, I believe, is a stately old gentlemen who goes by the name of "G" Bishop. Perhaps you should play chess with him from time to time._

_And while I am making suggestions, there is a bit of magic you may want to look into, one I believe you studied many years ago. The name is entirely misleading, but I am sure you remember the Safe Harbor Charm._

_Your old friend,_

_Gellert_

After a moment, he added a postscript, smiling as he sealed the letter.

* * *

* * *

The statue swung aside with a creak, but James was through the opening before any of the other Aurors could think of moving—except for 'Bella, of course. _She _was hard on his heels, having long ago hammered into a former chaser's skull the fact that surprise kept you alive: he who moved first lived longest.

Tracing the wall with his shoulder, James bolted forward with a curse on his lips.

"You're going to put someone's eye out with that, boy! What do you think this is, Quidditch?" A hand slapped James' wand down as a familiar growl filled the secret passageway.

_I've slowed down, _James realized belatedly, half-wishing he'd cursed the old bastard. But he never got a chance to defend himself before the other Auror continued:

"What kind of brain paralysis are you experiencing, 'Bella?" Moody demanded, stomping into the light. "This idiot's supposed to be _hiding_, for Merlin's bloody uncle's sake!"

"Oh, shut it, Alastor. Glad to see you got stuck in a closet instead of accomplishing something as the advance guard," Figg shot back. "Now, let's move."

To his credit, the senior Auror didn't seem to mind the criticism. "Move out," he ordered. "Potter, you're with me, since 'Bella here seems to think you know where you're going. And _constant vigilance, _people! For all you know, Weasley and I could have been Death Eaters."

James couldn't help the grin as he matched strides with Moody. "If you were, I'd have asked you to dance."

Deadly situation or not, he'd _missed _this.

* * *

* * *

Dumbledore crumbled, but somehow the Headmaster continued casting spells even as his legs collapsed out from under him. McGonagall went down to her knees at his side, supporting him while Remus and Severus threw shields out to cover the four of them.

Power reverberated painfully through both of them, and Remus felt almost as if _something _was drawing on his strength. _No time to worry now, Remus… Focus!_

Blood was pouring down Dumbledore's chin.

"What can we do?" Severus shouted, though Remus could barely hear him over the still howling wind. He felt as if Hogwarts was trapped in the middle of a tornado; there were moments when it seemed that the wind would sweep them all straight off the Tower or hammer them into the stones—too much power filled the air, and its presence had to be affecting the weather. There was no other explanation.

Dumbledore only shook his head in response. He seemed sluggish, too exhausted to speak.

A sudden new burst of power tore into the group, knocking Remus back—and the follow-on gust of wind swept him clean off his feet. Snape landed next to him, and their heads smacked together as both tried to rise at the same time.

"Ow!" Remus yelped.

"Fool!" Severus swore.

Another wave of power hammered them flat even as the professors regained their footing. Remus' left shoulder hit the tower wall hard, and he saw stars. Dawn was approaching, but the half-light sky suddenly seemed dark, and the entire world started to spin.

_Something _struck the tower.

Dumbledore grunted in pain.

A split second later, there was a sharp cry, and then McGonagall collapsed. Somehow, the headmaster stayed on his knees, and Remus struggled to his own knees, feeling his right side burn. Breathing was hard. Straightening was agony.

Realization hit.

"The shields!" Remus cried.

"_Contegorum!" _His spell and Snape's rose against the darkness at exactly the same moment, interposing a shimmery barrier between the now-red wall of magic sweeping towards the castle and the defenders. Instinctively, Remus knew that this was the worst attack yet, that this wave of power was the thrust Voldemort was sure would strike at Hogwarts' heart—

And then it hit.

_CRASH._

Remus screamed in pain, halfway to his feet and clinging to Snape for balance. The Potions Master did the same, and they levered one another upright, wands staying up and holding the shield between Dumbledore and the new attack. Amber and blue magic suddenly shot out, slipping underneath the hovering red curse, and for a moment, the sky seemed to lighten a bit. But then Voldemort's attack doubled in intensity, the morning went dark, and Remus would not have stayed on his feet without Snape's presence.

_Boom._

The sound was cleaner this time, higher and—

Dawn broke with a suddenness Remus had not expected. Sunlight streamed down on the Astronomy Tower, bathing the professors in warmth and chasing away the Dementors' lingering cold and terror. Dumbledore's wand flicked right and the pressure on Remus' and Snape's shield vanished without warning.

They both staggered, slumping against one another for balance and panting for air. Remus had not realized how hard he was breathing until suddenly the wave of power was gone. To his right, Snape was wheezing raggedly; swaying slightly, Remus fought back his own wave of dizziness and forced his mind to focus.

Dumbledore levered himself fully to his feet, moving slowly. "They are leaving," he said heavily. "I think—"

_Crash._

The doors behind them burst open, making Remus and Snape spin drunkenly to meet the new threat.

"Friend!" Moody barked as over a dozen Aurors leapt over the shattered door.

For a long moment, the professors stared at the newcomers and the Aurors stared back, no one saying a word. Ever so slowly, Remus felt the tension eking out of his body and reality setting in. They'd won. Somehow, they'd _won._

"Perfect timing," Snape muttered under his breath, and for once, Remus wholeheartedly agreed with his old enemy. He bit back a tired snicker as Moody scowled:

"It's over, isn't it?" the Auror stated flatly.

"Yes, Alastor. It is." Dumbledore's voice was a scratchy whisper, and Remus moved instinctively to his side. The headmaster still looked unsteady, and Remus' own dizziness had retreated just enough to help. Likewise, Snape stumbled forward to bend over the still-unconscious McGonagall.

"Damn it all." Moody sighed, and then gestured back at the castle. "Take the wards down, and we'll scour the grounds. Perhaps we'll find some stragglers."

Dumbledore nodded tiredly, his blue eyes barely focused. "They're down."

"Good," Arabella Figg spoke up. "Now, leave the rest of us and take care of yourself, Albus. We'll take it from here."

"Thank you." Remus offered the headmaster his arm as Dumbledore answered, and was slightly surprised when the old wizard accepted the help. Meanwhile, Severus had revived McGonagall and was helping her to her feet. The Deputy Headmistress looked beat to hell—but not half as bad as Dumbledore did.

"Let's get you both to the Hospital Wing," Remus said softly, expecting resistance. But McGonagall got in first:

"That's an excellent idea, Remus," she replied, shooting Dumbledore a hard look. He blinked slowly, but allowed Remus to lead the way.

As he passed his friend, Remus met James' gaze, wishing there was time for words. But he wasn't shocked to see the gleam in the other Marauder's eyes; somehow, James looked more _alive _than he had in years. It was good to see James out and making a difference, even if Lily would never agree. She'd want him safe—but Remus knew him too well.

They'd talk later. For now, a look was enough.

* * *

* * *

No one ever asked how Dumbledore was up so quickly after such a battle. Conversely, McGonagall spent over a week in Hogwarts' Hospital Wing recovering from her injuries (and had Madam Pomfrey her way, it would have been twice that time). Even Remus and Snape were kept overnight for observation, and neither had the energy to object. But Dumbledore was right as rain the very next day, with the same old twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step.

He was _Dumbledore_, of course, so no one asked.

* * *

* * *

Sirius was certain that he'd never seen Voldemort _bleed_. He'd desperately wanted to, of course, but so far as he knew, the Dark Lord had never—not once—been injured by _any _opponent he'd faced, including the dozens of Aurors he had killed over the years.

_I suppose that means he doesn't have a healer working for him, _Sirius thought as dispassionately as he could. _And it's not like he can go to St. Mungo's—don't we all wish he would! _

The thought made him want to laugh, and Sirius would have, had his skin not been crawling in terror. Voldemort was simply _standing _there, bleeding and watching Sirius. Saying nothing.

A long moment passed before he could scrape up something suitably obnoxious to say.

"Have a nice little failure this morning?" Sirius asked cheerfully.

Still nothing.

Blood dripped slowly to the floor from a pair of deep cuts on Voldemort's wand arm, creating a small puddle around the Dark Lord's right foot.

"You get mauled by a dog or something?" Sirius wheezed.

He'd asked the question to be annoying, but a dog attack would fit the bill. Scratches and gashes covered Voldemort's right side, and his wand arm _did _actually look like he'd thrown it in the path of a particularly vicious animal.

_If that animal had been Padfoot, you'd have lost that arm, Voldie._

Thinking thoughts like that kept him sane, and he needed the sanity when the wordless snarl greeted his cheek.

"_Crucio."_

Even as he screamed, Sirius realized how flat the voice uttering the curse had sounded. Something was…abnormal.

Once his vision cleared enough to focus on Voldemort's face, he noticed the weariness etched into the pale features, the exhaustion that drained Voldemort's expression down to nothing.

"You lost," Sirius whispered hoarsely, the words escaping before he'd even finished thinking them. His eyes were wide, and no amount of agony could keep the wonder out of his voice. "Someone stood up to you, and you _lost_."

Now the wand screwed right up into his neck, making Sirius gasp for air.

"_Crucio."_

The pain was excruciating, and Sirius almost blacked out before the curse was lifted. Unfortunately, however, Voldemort knew him too well to let that happen. But coming so close to the edge was not what shocked him. What did _that _was the way the curse was uttered.

There was no passion in it. No emotion. Not even vindictive pleasure—just the need of one man to hurt another to make himself feel more powerful.

Sirius had looked into death so many times that it could no longer frighten him. He had gone beyond the limits of his own endurance and learned to face whatever pain came at him, no matter how afraid he was, and he had forced himself to learn to laugh at a man whose _enjoyment _of his pain terrified him.

None of that was half so frightening as this.

* * *

* * *

**The 1,462nd Day: October 25, 1985 **

As months and then years passed, all the Potters knew was that the Fidelius Charm was still in effect. Over time, even James came to accept what that _had _to mean—for no one could survive years on end in Voldemort's hands. So when the charm finally expired and stood to be renewed, James refused Remus' offer to do so. He was touched—and tormented—by the fact that another one of his friends would be willing to lay down his life for him…but enough was enough. James Potter would fight, and he'd do so in his best friend's memory.

The day after he cast a new Fidelius Charm to keep Lily and Harry safe—four years and one day after Sirius had cast the original—the surviving Marauders walked out to look at the simple black monument high on a hill

The third line would always stick out most in James' mind. _Faithful until the end._

Heartsick, he was reminded of the poem he'd written when they were boys, of words that had once meant everything to the Marauders—and had, in the end, ensured Sirius' death. Of course he'd been faithful. Sirius had _always _been loyal. Crazy, hot-tempered, arrogant, and sometimes dangerously impulsive though he'd been, he had always been the best friend to have.

"Should we hold another service? One James can…come to?" Peter asked when the others remained silent, clearly struggling to hold back tears. They'd all thought they were beyond mourning, assumed the pain had faded, but James and Remus were crying, too. This was only the second time in five years that the three had been together, and they were slowly coming to face the fact that the Marauders would never stand side by side again.

"No," James replied stubbornly. He didn't have to explain. "No."

Knowing about the first one had been bad enough.

His emotions were rubbed too raw to say more for several long minutes; James could only stand helplessly between his two friends and stare at the monument they'd erected.

"It's not fair," he finally whispered. "What are we going to do without him?"

"Keep fighting," Remus replied without hesitation. "Do what he couldn't, and take Voldemort down."

Quiet and reserved Remus was gone. Passive Remus had become active; Sirius' death had brought him off of the sidelines and firmly into the fray. James' eyes met his briefly and saw iron-hard purpose there, a refusal to give in, and a determination to see the war through to the end. Remus' words, however, caused Peter to flinch ever so slightly, but both thought that it was only fear. Years more would pass before either understood more.

"I'm going back to the Aurors," James told the other two. "It's risky, but…I have to do _something_. Harry is old enough to understand, and Voldemort seems to have focused on other targets now."

"So you hope," Remus commented quietly.

James smiled wryly. "So I hope."

Remus' eyes met his again, and understanding flashed. Risk or not, targeted or not, James _had _to fight. For four years he'd been burning up inside, waiting and hoping and yearning to make a difference. Now he'd bring the battle back to Voldemort, and he'd be damned if he'd give in.

In a way, Remus had long since done the same. When the opportunity to teach at Hogwarts had arisen, the werewolf had jumped at it—but not for the reasons many suspected. Remus had become Dumbledore's hole card, the one person who knew his mind almost as well as Minerva McGonagall. He fought in the shadows as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, but James knew that doing so only made Remus more dangerous, not less. Being a "dark creature" and always viewed with suspicion by the Ministry, Remus had nonetheless found his niche in the war in a way he might not have had Sirius remained to fight on the front lines.

Even little Peter had finally begun to participate in the Order as more than just moral support. During the first few years after Sirius' disappearance and death, Peter had been home very little; work had kept him out of the country and away from his friends. Whether or not he was grateful for the excuse neither James nor Remus would ever ask; what mattered was that he was home now, and he was striving to make a difference. They were _together_, with no more hiding.

When no amount of detention or time spent in the "real world" could force the Marauders to mature, Sirius' death had finally done the trick. They were harder, now. Wiser, sharpened by loss, and _stronger_.

Still, Peter's voice shook. "Be careful, Prongs," he said quietly. "If you—if you die, too…"

"I won't."

It wasn't a promise he could really keep, but it was one that had to be made.

* * *

* * *

Author's Note: Stay tuned for PH14 _"Desperate Times", _in which Sirius gets an unwelcome Christmas present, Remus and Snape come to an understanding, and Mad-Eye Moody has a really bad day.


	15. Chapter 14: Desperate Times

_A/N: Mind the time jumps! This chapter covers a lot of time.

* * *

_

**Chapter Fourteen: Desperate Times

* * *

**

**The 1,502nd Day: December 25, 1985 **

Most people had pegged James Potters' life expectancy at around a month. Maybe two. Having been foolish enough to return to active duty as an Auror—and being _stupid _enough to do his job so well that Azkaban was practically brimming with Death Eater prisoners cursing his name—the growing feeling in the Wizarding World was that the Dark Lord himself would single Potter out for attention, _and_ that he'd do so sooner rather than later. The situation caused tension between the Aurors' rising star and his comrades, because though they were willing to respect him, no one wanted to befriend him, lest they be destroyed by the fallout when Voldemort finally decided to strike.

James, however, hardly seemed to notice. And the longer he lived, the more the distance between him and the others shrank; he was a friendly enough man, after all, and tended to save lives on missions because he really _was _that good at his job.

More than a few stopped being resentful for the years he'd spent in hiding while trying to protect his little son, and started feeling grateful that they had him now. Soon enough, he'd moved up in the Aurors' hierarchy to a spot right behind Arabella Figg, because after three months back on duty, he was still alive.

By then, even Moody was beginning to wonder if he led a charmed life, or if Voldemort was simply messing with their minds. James only wished _he _knew which it was. At least then he would have had an answer when people asked him. Presently, he was limited to the silliest thing that came to mind at any given moment, which was often rubbish; "he wants to recruit me for his personal Quidditch team, didn't you hear? Can't play for the Dark Lords if I'm dead, after all," was unfortunately one of the more clever responses.

"James Potter, if you don't start paying attention to me _right now_, I swear by all that's holy that I'll hex your favorite broom in so many ways that it'll take _years _to sort out," Lily interrupted his thought process, poking him in the arm.

"_And_," she continued, "I'll take away your Christmas presents. Every single one of them."

That got his attention. "Hey! I was just thinking."

"Thinking and not listening to a word I said," his wife shot back. "Now, are you going to help me put Harry's presents out, or not?"

She was shooting him a look that said any answer other than _yes_ would be suicidal, so James nodded meekly.

"Of course I am." He tried a brilliant smile on her. "You know I'd love to help."

"Sure you do, James."

"I love presents!" he objected.

"That's because you're only a few years ahead of Harry when it comes to maturity," Lily said pointedly. "Now, will you _please _finish assembling that train set before you have to start the spell all over again? I'd like to get some sleep tonight."

Guiltily, James looked down at the kid-sized Hogwarts Express in front of him. Once he was done with it, Harry would be able to ride it around the house—which would probably drive both of his parents insane within a week, but that was life with a five year old. "Sorry," he said softly. "I guess I was…elsewhere."

Lily nestled her head into his shoulder. "Thinking about the job?"

"Yeah. As usual."

"What this time?"

"I think we're finally getting somewhere, Lily. I really do. We got Dolohov and Mulciber yesterday, and that's got to count for something." James had to smile; he'd only been back in the war for three months, but this was the first time things had started to look _up_.

His words made Lily sit up in a hurry, her eyes wide. "You got Mulciber?"

"Oh, yes. No more 'Mulciber and Flint, Killers Extraordinaire'," he replied with relish. "We put a stop on that. It should be in the papers by morning."

Glancing at the clock, James realized that morning wasn't all that many hours away, and he still had presents to assemble. But Lily kissed him on the cheek.

"Good for you. I know I didn't like the idea of you going back, James…but I'm glad you have. You're making a difference." Her smile sank into a frown after a moment. "I only wish I could."

James hugged her. "You _will_, Lily. Harry won't stay small forever, and after awhile, you'll be able to come back in. Even if we are gaining ground, this thing is going to stick around for awhile. You'll have a chance."

"I almost wish I wouldn't. I hate being on the sidelines, but if the war ended tomorrow, I could live with that."

"Tell me about it."

* * *

"Did you miss me, cousin?"

The sudden chill had not made it through his haze of pain, but _her _voice did. Slowly, Sirius forced his eyes open, certain he was hallucinating, knowing he must have heard wrongly—because she _wasn't _at Casa Serpente. She was in _Azkaban_. He knew that for a fact.

Except there Bellatrix was. Standing right in front of the chair they'd chained him to, giggling her mad little brains out.

He blinked. Hard. And then he blinked again.

She was still there.

_Damn._

Sirius dug deep to summon up a smile. "'Bout as much as I'd miss a case of the boils, Trixie. Probably less, actually."

Her furious screech was just a _tad _more unhinged than he'd expected, and the wave of power that hit him made Sirius scream weakly. His reaction caused Bellatrix to break out in a fit of giggles, of course, but he was still coherent enough to realize that four years in Azkaban had not been kind to her.

"That was even less sane that I expected from you," he wheezed.

"I'd kill you now if my Lord would let me," she hissed, suddenly close to his face and furious.

"Go ahead," he shot back. "Do it."

Her wand came up, and Sirius actually thought she might.

For a moment, he was torn between hope and fear.

The news broke on Christmas morning, of course, pulling countless Aurors away from their families and friends and back to Avalon. Upon arrival, they immediately noticed the different quality on the Aurors' Island. There was something _darker_, something cold and frightening about the place they had come to think of the one unconditionally safe location in the Wizarding World. Avalon remained un-breached, of course—to take the island would have required far more followers than Voldemort had ever possessed—but something was different.

No one on the island needed to read the _Daily Prophet_ to know that Azkaban had been taken, and that the Dementors had given themselves to the Dark Lord. As close as they were, they could _feel _the change.

Sirius, meanwhile, began to learn that his nightmares could indeed be worse than reality.

* * *

**The 1,509th Day: January 1, 1986 **

New Years' Eve was celebrated in macabre fashion when Voldemort turned his new pets lose on the Wizarding World…and the death toll mounted rapidly. The list of the dead was released in the Daily Prophet the next morning, without a description of _how _each died...after all, a Dementor's kiss needed little explanation, and the average witch or wizard was not about to ask how the victims had actually died after their souls were sucked out.

The Minister of Magic did, of course, and the closest the Aurors had ever been to destruction came after she learned of the potions slipped to each of the soulless victims, usually by their next of kin, but sometimes by the Aurors if a family member could not be found. Which potions master supplied them no one knew; rumor said that Moody fetched them out of the late Regulas Moonshine's private stash after quietly administering one to the legendary potions maker himself.

Moonshine was hardly the only victim thus treated; the list went on. The entire Jorkins family (Primrose and Albert, in addition to their children Grimwold and Granville) was Kissed in their home and left two days before the neighbors found them and called the Aurors in. Demetrius Prod and his wife Elsie were found aimlessly wandering the streets in their hometown. Hit Wizard Alastor Gumboil was more lucky; his family had been traveling when the Dementors came to call, which meant that he at least suffered alone.

However, the Dementors' actions were not the worst. Not by far.

Led by Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan Lestrange, the Death Eaters whom Voldemort had released upon his capture of Azkaban visited no less than fourteen young Aurors in the wee hours of New Year's morning, torturing each straight into insanity. Nine did not survive, but the five who did had to be taken to St. Mungo's in secret, including young Gawain Robards, who had once hero-worshiped Sirius Black.

The news leaked out bit by bit over the following days, and the Wizarding World slowly came to realize that 1986 would be no better than 1985.

Perhaps worse.

In the carnage, no one noticed that the Longbottoms somehow managed to slip out of their home just steps ahead of the Death Eaters, Apparating away to safety before returning in the bright hours after dawn. Severus Snape, who had been advancing rapidly in the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers, was reportedly mystified by their escape, and for hours after, he ruthlessly grilled more junior Death Eaters, searching for the spy that must have given the operation away.

No evidence of a traitor was found, which was probably why the Dark Lord chose Snape to bear the brunt of his displeasure.

oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo

Remus had drawn the short straw that year; his job was to patrol the corridors late at night, seeking out the few students who both remained at Hogwarts and viewed New Year's as a perfect time for trouble. The group staying over the holidays was even smaller than usual this year, and while none of them were particularly naughty, that did not take away the need for a professor to stay awake to deal with them, just in case someone—

_Crash._

Wand out, Remus spun and took three quick strides back around the corner he'd just turned; the noise was probably caused by students, but this day in age, it paid to be careful, and that suit of armor was darn difficult to topple.

The spell on his lips evaporated when he saw who lay tangled amongst greaves, breastplate, and helmet.

He had to be wrong.

"_Lumos," _Remus whispered, and light filled the corridor.

He blinked. Hard.

"Severus?"

* * *

_Azkaban is less secure than Casa Serpente, but I will reside here for now. I prefer to keep my ancestral home Unplottable, thus revealing its location to my followers would not be wise. Instead, the palace I have raised upon Azkaban will serve as a constant reminder to the Wizarding World that I can take whatever I wish, and I will do so when it pleases me._

_In my triumph, Black remains the only frustration. I have freed some of my most loyal followers, and I should be joyous—but the fool boy continues to defy me. He is frightened, but even the Dementors have not broken down his resolve. Perhaps the day that the Fidelius Charm expires will be the day he breaks. There are not too many months left before that day arrives._

_Until then, I will be patient. _

_But I will let Bella play in the meantime. She understands what is required, and she does so enjoy it._

* * *

Snape was staggering to his feet by the time Remus arrived, drawn and pale. Remus reached out a hand to help him, only to be batted aside—but not until after he noticed how the other professors' hands were shaking.

"Are you all right?" he had to ask.

"Of course I'm all right," Severus snapped. "Just get out of my way."

But Remus was a werewolf, and the wolf could smell pain. "What happened?"

"What do you think happened?" was the wheezed reply, and a moment passed before everything clicked into place.

"Voldemort?" Remus felt like an idiot.

"No, it was your Fairy Godmother. This is nothing new, Lupin. Just step aside."

But he staggered, and Remus caught him as gently as he could.

"I thought you were one of his favorites," he said quietly, watching the pain tighten Snape's face further. Clearly, the potions master had been hit by far too many of the Cruciatus Curse; Remus was rather surprised he was still conscious.

Snape coughed. "I _am _one of his favorites. That is why I survived my failure."

"Let me help you to your quarters." There was so much he wanted to ask—sarcastic or not, _this _was not a side of Snape he saw often—but it would wait. First things first.

"I _don't_ need your help."

That was a lie, but Remus recognized it for the offering it was: he could walk away and things would remain the same between the two of them. Stay, and Remus would find himself in deeper than perhaps he wanted to be—but there was really no decision to be made. "You've got it anyway."

Snape seemed too tired to argue.

Ten agonizing minutes later, Remus helped Snape into a chair in his basement quarters, having received quite a tongue-lashing when he suggested that the other crawl into bed. But he could tell that Snape's heart wasn't in the insulting diatribe, so he only shrugged it off.

"Do you have any potions that will help?" he asked instead of answering in kind.

Snape gestured drunkly, still breathing hard. "Second cabinet. Third door down. On the right. Gray vial."

Remus found and fetched the appropriate potion, and then watched as Snape downed it in one gulp, not even wrenching his face up in distaste, despite the awful smell. Several moments passed in silence as some color returned to the Death Eater's face.

"Thank you," Snape replied after another minute or so, his voice extremely…quiet.

"You're welcome." James would have made a snide remark about how _that wasn't so hard, was it_, but Remus wasn't James. "You should get some sleep, you know."

"Breakfast is soon enough, and then the news will break. I must be seen, hale and hearty, here at Hogwarts." Snape sneered. "As if anyone with half a brain won't already have guessed where I was."

"I suppose it only matters that they can't prove it," Remus replied thoughtfully.

"But I'm _evil_, Lupin. Aren't you a goody-two-shoes who's supposed to _want _me to get caught doing my nefarious deeds?"

"And I'm a dark creature. Don't you hate me for that?" he couldn't help snapping back.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air then, both realizing that neither really hated the other…and hadn't for quite awhile.

"So, what did you fail at?" Remus finally asked.

Severus sighed. "My group was supposed to kill the Longbottoms. Or leave them for worse than dead. They…escaped."

Remus caught the reference immediately, but could not stop himself from gaping. "You warned them."

"Of course I didn't warn them. What kind of idiot do you think I am?" Severus snapped back. But then a tiny, wan, smile creased his face. "I told Albus."

Remus had to chuckle, and he wound up waiting for Snape to change before they headed up to breakfast together, where the headlines read:

**NEW YEAR'S NIGHTMARE BEGINS.  
**_**Is this a prediction of the future?**_

* * *

Two weeks later, the Unicorn Group started work on the Safe Return Charm, though years would pass before any progress was made. Knowing that Voldemort's control of the Dementors would only make the war worse, Lily pushed and prodded her cohorts to come up with _something_, _anything _to slow their assault—but in the end, not even the Order's most brilliant minds could come up with a better solution than the Patronus Charm, imperfect and difficult though it was.

The months passed, and the chaos continued.

* * *

**The 1,691st Day: July 2, 1986 **

The argument, of course, was legendary. Most disagreements with Molly Weasley _were_—the fact was rather inevitable—but this one more than most. Bill showing up and trying to _help _only made things worse, too, or at least in Charlie's opinion. He could argue with his own mum without big brother jumping into make "sense" out of things…though he couldn't dispute the fact that Bill had made an awfully nice distraction just when their mother had been getting all kinds of furious.

Their father hadn't been much better, either, but at least they'd both toned down enough to understand that Charlie was eighteen, and he was going to do what he thought was right, regardless of the consequences. Neither had liked it—and his ears were still ringing with the warnings and shouting and worrying he'd received that morning (two weeks after the initial argument, no less!)—but at least his parents had chosen to support Charlie.

So there he was. Waiting with the rest of his potential classmates (Auror Class 4889, the instructors insisted on calling them) to be transferred to Avalon and begin training. His brother had told him nothing more than the mere existence of the legendary island, but Charlie knew enough to be as excited as he was frightened.

Because he _was _frightened out of his ever-living-mind—how could he not be, with Mad-Eye Moody bellowing like that? At least he didn't _think _he looked as nervous as his potential classmates did. From what Bill said, about a third of the candidates didn't even make it past the Testing and Grounding phase, especially since it had been shortened down to just six _weeks _instead of the old six _months_. But if Bill had made it through, Charlie knew he would.

The compressed training pipeline did make him worry a bit, though. In fact, even Mad-Eye was talking about it:

"In the old days, it took _two years _to train an Auror, and that wasn't counting Mentorship," the old wizard barked, stomping his way from one side of the group of candidates to the other. "Now, you sorry lot has to learn the same lessons in just over five months, so you'd best be up to it.

"There'll be no crying here, children. No going home for visits—and I don't care if your precious grannie's uncle is dying or not—and no fun to be had. If you're not committed, you'd best get out now."

His smile was suddenly wicked.

"Because if you don't, I promise it'll be the biggest regret of your life."

* * *

**The 1,826th Day: November 14, 1986 **

"Being ambitious doesn't mean you have to be an idiot," Moody snarled as James walked into the Auror Division offices at the Ministry, "_Mister _Crouch. Now sit down before I hex you into the chair so badly that it'll take _weeks _for your secretary to sort out which pieces belong to you and which are made of obnoxiously pink fabric."

Unable to help himself, James stopped and stared. He'd spent very little time in the Aurors' Ministry offices since his return to the field; when he wasn't out chasing Death Eaters, he tended to spend time helping train others on Avalon. Like most of his fellows, he avoided the Ministry on principle, and though he knew Moody _had _to spend time there (he was the Head of the Auror Division, after all), he would not have expected to see Moody bullying the head of the _entire_ Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Out in the open, no less.

"Someone has to do something!" Barty Crouch, Senior said with more passion than James had ever seen the hard-edged politician show. "Hey—"

Moody had shoved Crouch into a chair; the Minister landed with a _thump._

"Shut it," the Auror growled. "Doing something is Fischer's job. That's why he's the _Deputy _Minister of Magic."

"Fischer's a fool. He doesn't have the spine—"

"And that's why he'll survive," Moody cut him off again. "What'd you transfigure your brains into, rocks? Of course you've got the necessary spine. That's why Voldemort would rip it out and feed it to his followers. He's out to send a _message_. Let the spineless idiot have the power. You're needed here."

Crouch spat out a harsh laugh. "Are you actually saying that _you _need me, Moody?"

"Better you than breaking in a new boss," the other retorted, his magical eye whirling wildly—and then suddenly focusing on James. "Ah, Potter. Glad to see you're early."

James' jaw dropped. "Huh?"

Moody's warning scowl told James to stop asking questions, even if he had been there solely to check Arabella Figg's mail. The senior Auror turned back to Crouch without bothering to spare James a further word.

"Potter here will head up your guard detail until the dust settles. He's grossly overqualified for the job, but that should keep you alive so long as you don't do anything stupid."

"I am hardly going to charge out like some heroic fool," Crouch replied archly. "I intend to _stay _alive."

Moody's eyes narrowed. "I bet Bagnold didn't intend to die, either, Minister, and there's still no way they'll open the coffin for viewing at her funeral."

Crouch didn't seem to have an answer to that one; he just shifted uneasily and looked away from the two Aurors.

"Now, go in your office and stay _put _until Potter's team is assembled," Moody ordered his superior. "Public appearances can _wait. _Let Fischer babble on the WWN. You can't save him from himself."

Even Crouch didn't seem to feel the need to point out how cold-blooded that statement was; Moody was a warrior, plain and simple, and in times of war, compassion made for weakness. Besides which, Crouch knew a thing or two about the ends justifying the means; his leadership of the DMLE had exemplified that philosophy during the past nine years.

Still, James waited until the Minister was safely inside his office before asking: "What happened?"

The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew when Moody sighed resignedly.

"It'll be all over the papers within an hour, anyway," the senior Auror said quietly. "Millicent Bagnold was killed this morning."

"What?" Surprise forced the word out, even if James had more or less heard that a few moments before. Still, the impossible fact had yet to sink in—Millicent Bagnold had been the Minister of Magic for over six years, and before that the driving force behind the Wizengamot. She was tough, she was old, and she was _fair_; even Voldemort could not have called her corrupt. She'd been the steadying hand guiding the Wizarding World though all these years of war, and now she was dead.

James could only stare as Moody nodded grimly.

"Voldemort took her down when she was out for breakfast with her grandniece—in the Middle of Muggle Hounslow, no less. The Obliviators have been busy for hours, and the idiot Muggles are babbling about a bomb going off."

"Voldemort killed her…himself?" James gaped. _If he did, that means…_

"Thoroughly. And he left witnesses. The grandniece survived." Moody paused to glower. "No doubt the son of a bitch meant her to. She's in St. Mungo's, clinging to what little is left of her sanity. She'll never be the same again."

"But he wanted us to know." He felt cold. "That's escalating the war further than ever before. Further than even taking Azkaban."

Moody snorted. "Tell me something I don't know, boy."

James couldn't, but that was rather the point. He forced himself to focus on the future, but it was hard. His mind was racing. "So, I'll be protecting Minister Crouch, then. Who's on my team?"

"Jones, Dawlish, and Jordan. That should be enough for now, unless things really go to shit."

"Right." He hesitated before asking, but he had not know. "What do we do if Voldemort comes after him, next?"

Because no one in their right mind would really believe that Minister Fischer could mount an effective resistance. Crouch was Bagnold's logical successor, and that made him one heck of a target.

Step, _thump. _He'd almost waited too long; Moody was already halfway to the first fire connecting in the Ministry to Avalon, and he didn't even bother to look over his shoulder before replying: "Run like hell, of course."

Step, _thump._

"Constant vigilance, Potter!"

And then he was gone.

* * *

Remus was at lunch when the news broke, with owls soaring into the Great Hall to drop the _Daily Prophet_'s special edition onto students' plates. More than a few first years yelped, mainly the Muggleborns, as they were still far from used to the _Prophet's_ owls manners (or lack thereof). But the older children tore into the paper eagerly, knowing that a special afternoon edition meant important news.

McGonagall did the same—somehow, during his Hogwarts years, Remus had missed her addiction to the Wizarding World's newspaper, but after teaching with her for two years, he was used to sneaking peeks over her shoulder to read the headlines. Still, McGonagall had barely opened the paper when a strange silence fell over the hall, and Remus could have sworn the temperature dropped several degrees.

oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo

**MINISTER OF MAGIC DEAD  
**_By Charles Li, Special Correspondent_

Early this morning, an explosion rocked Hounslow, eliciting  
reports of bombs, auto-mobile crashes, and a flying tea saucer  
throughout the Muggle media. But the Muggles who blame the  
destruction of the Pineapple Café on a ruptured gas line are the  
lucky ones.

The two witches inside are not.

Millicent Bagnold, age ninety-seven and longtime Minister of  
Magic, has been a bulwark against the darkness ever since the  
early days of the war, going back to her days leading the  
Wizengamot. Next to Albus Dumbledore, she has been He-Who-  
Must-Not-Be-Named's most obdurate foe, always ready to "fight  
the good fight" and see that evil is faced down. And yet—now she  
is gone.

The only witnesses to the attack were confused Muggles and Alicia  
Bagnold, who is currently at St. Mungo's for treatment. But the few  
fragments of information paint a frightening picture:

Somewhere around 8 o'clock AM, Millicent Bagnold and her grand-  
niece sat down for breakfast in the Pineapple Café.

By 8:30, a tall, pale man in "strange clothes" was sighted on the  
Street outside.

Two minutes later, he entered the doorway of the café—and within  
seconds, Millicent Bagnold's body had been torn apart as if  
attacked by wild animals, inches away from her screaming  
grandniece. Moments later, the explosion rocked the tiny building  
to its very foundations, and by the time the smoke cleared, He-  
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was gone.

The Bagnold family was not available for comment, and no public  
funeral is planned. Deputy Minister of Magic Ergo Fischer has  
announced that a press conference will be held this afternoon,  
though he was quick to point out that the Wizarding World remains  
safe and secure, despite this tragic act of violence.

More details will follow in tonight's evening issue.

* * *

**The 1,827th Day: November 15, 1986 **

For the first time in what felt like years, they'd been allowed to sleep in, so why had Charlie found himself utterly incapable of keeping his eyes closed past dawn? Finally, he'd wandered out to the docks to stare at the water and watch the sky brighten; after all, if this was going to be his last day on Avalon (for the foreseeable future, anyway), he might as well remember something nice about the place.

And the view _was _nice. Certainly nicer than yelling and curses and stress and studying until his eyes bled, anyway. Especially since Moody himself had somehow carved time out of his own busy schedule to come torment class 4889, especially during the final phase, affectionately known to the students as "Hades' Quarter." How Moody managed to do that _and _keep on filling the Ministry's temporary prison with Death Eaters was beyond Charlie's comprehension—especially since Voldemort's _other _followers had a nasty habit of breaking them out soon after they were captured.

"Enjoying the dawn, or running away from the one-eyed monsters in your nightmares?" a light voice asked from behind him, and Charlie grinned as his classmate approached.

"Little of both, I think," he answered. "I _used _to be able to sleep past noon. After this place, I'm not sure I'll ever miss a dawn again."

Striker Williamson chuckled. "Sounds downright brave compared to my reason for being up."

"Oh?"

"I kept dreaming that I'd wind up with Moody as a mentor and have to listen to that '_Constant Vigilance!_' shout for the next year or so."

Charlie laughed. "Could be worse."

"How?" Striker demanded.

The two of them had been study partners from the third week onwards, and they'd become good friends. Bill hadn't known Striker well at Hogwarts—being a Gryffindor with the other as a Slytherin wasn't exactly a breeding ground for friendship—but he'd found Striker's sly sense of humor refreshingly brilliant, and the two managed to get along despite their different backgrounds. He was a good man, and if Auror training had done anything to change Charlie, it had certainly erased his childish belief that everyone was defined by their Hogwarts' houses.

Striker was tough, too—there was no questioning that, as very few Halfbloods (even ones with a Squib for a father and extremely powerful pureblooded grandparents on both sides) would have risen to become a prefect in Slytherin. He'd been at the top of their class, with Charlie only a few points behind, and he'd be a fantastic Auror someday. Clearly, however, he really didn't want to spend the intervening months with Mad-Eye Moody.

"My brother was Mentored by him, and Bill says he's not _that _awful."

"Then _you _can have him," Striker decided with a sly smile.

Charlie couldn't suppress a shudder. "I really hope not. How about we wish him on Belby?"

Victoria Belby had to be the least popular person in their class—obviously talented but by far the most snobbish. Like Striker, she was a Slytherin by background, but _her _family, as she was proud to point out, had _never _had a Squib in their long history and of course, never would. Having graduated a year ahead of Charlie and Striker, she shunned the other Slytherin mercilessly, preferring to "remember old House loyalties" and associate only with the worthy (otherwise known as pureblooded Ravenclaws) in their candidate class.

"That'd be _beautiful_," his friend replied. "Can we put in a request?"

"Don't I wish."

* * *

Neither was aware of the pair watching from a discreet distance.

"Happy, aren't they?" Moody snorted, rolling his real eye.

"Weren't you happy on your last day, Alastor?" Arabella Figg shot back. "Or do you not remember that far back into your checkered past?"

"Funny, Figg. You're only four years younger than me."

She smiled sweetly. "I thought so. Witches retain memory longer than wizards, you know. It's a proven fact."

"Horseshit."

"Because that sounded intelligent."

Laughter came from the docks, and Moody rolled both his eyes this time, the magical one whirling a bit wildly. "They have no idea, do they?"

Arabella swallowed, stuffing her hands into her robes' pockets before answering. "Of course they don't, Alastor. How would they? We've steadfastedly kept this one away from the students."

"Idiots."

"They're Aurors now, you know. You should stop calling them that."

"Says who?"

"Says you, lackwit."

That made Moody laugh, and _that _made Arabella roll her own eyes. "You're hopeless."

"Of course I am. And so are they. They're absolutely not qualified, and half of them are going to get their damn fool selves killed out there," he retorted.

"Then why the hell did _you _suggest the further acceleration of the training schedule, Alastor?" she demanded, turning to face him.

He shrugged. "Half the fully trained Aurors get themselves killed. What difference does it make?"

At least Alastor had the good grace to look unhappy about the situation, but that was not enough to mollify her.

"You're a cold bastard, you know."

"Pot calling the kettle, Figg."

She glared.

"Can you argue with me?"

"You know I can't, damnit," she admitted angrily.

"There you have it, then. Facts are facts. Just like we're leaving Avalon because of Ministry pressure more than necessity—you and I _know _the island is secure, but Crouch and the other fools have no damn clue what this place means."

"_We _don't know much about this place, Alastor," she interjected quietly, shivering despite herself. Avalon was the Aurors' greatest mystery; the island's origins were buried somewhere in the past and had been lost throughout the Aurors' long history. Arabella _loved _the island despite that—unlike Alastor, who simply found it a useful place—but she would never claim to understand Avalon's eccentricities. She knew something had changed in the months since Voldemort took Azkaban, and not knowing what bothered her.

"We know enough to know it's safe," he retorted stubbornly.

"I think so…but I don't know _why_, and that's the problem," she replied. Of course, she'd backed Alastor up when they'd gone to Crouch, but in private she had to disagree.

"Doesn't matter now, anyway. This time tomorrow, the island'll be dark. Fools."

She didn't ask if he meant Striker and Weasley, or the entire Ministry. Arabella wasn't sure she wanted to know. There were too many problems to count, already, and she didn't have time to ask for more.

* * *

Ye Olde Other Author's Note:I hope you enjoyed, and please do review! And of course, stick around for Chapter 15: _"Desperate Measures,"_ in which the world only gets darker, and the war reaches out to Hogwarts in a very personal way.

Also, for those of you wondering about Bill and Charlie's ages…I set them up at their "UU" ages back in _Promises Unbroken_, and I can't find a way to adjust them to the ages JKR gave in Book 6/7 without doing irreparable damage to the plot. So, in the UU, Bill was born in 1964 and Charlie in 1967.


	16. Chapter 15: Desperate Measures

_A/N: Again, please mind the time jumps! This chapter doesn't jump around quite as much as the last one, but it still covers almost three months._

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Desperate Measures**

* * *

**The 1,827th Day: November 15, 1986 **

He no longer saw Voldemort as often as he once had; nowadays, the Lestranges (especially cousin Bellatrix, but often Rabastan or Rodolphus) were in charge of his "care", which Sirius was strangely grateful for.

Trixie might have been nasty, but she was easier to deal with. At least he understood how to piss her off, and she wasn't nearly as good at mind games as the Dark Lord had proven himself.

Such as now. She'd foolishly hexed him almost into oblivion, and Sirius was gleefully taking advantage of the situation to catch some much-needed rest. Almost a year later, she still hadn't caught onto how high his pain tolerance had grown, or how quickly he regained consciousness after she did her work—which usually gave Sirius at least a small opportunity to get in some of whatever passed for sleep in his life.

The Dementors didn't help, of course, but at least he'd grown so weak that sometimes Trixie didn't bother to bind him, which meant he could transform and be free of their noxious effect. Padfoot was much more resilient than Sirius was, and being the dog let his mind stop racing

Being the dog let him forget how afraid he was.

Footsteps sounded from far down the hallway, echoing their way closer. Padfoot counted the moments, glad for the dog's sensitive ears. If he was lucky, the footsteps belonged to someone other than the Lestranges—_anyone _other than them—heading someplace else. Anywhere else.

But no. He was nowhere near that lucky.

Padfoot's nose sniffed out Bellatrix, so Sirius closed his eyes and reluctantly transformed, forcing himself not to cry out as feeling rushed back into his human body. Perhaps it was Padfoot's simpler mind that dulled the pain a bit, or maybe the injuries just manifested themselves differently; either way, things did not hurt so much when he was in his animagus form, and Sirius always hated turning back.

Now even his human ears could pick up the sound of her footsteps, though, so Sirius forced his eyes open and braced himself for pain.

* * *

"Do you want him, or shall I take him?"

Surprisingly enough, James had not heard Moody approach, and he almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of the older wizard's gravelly voice. The one-legged Auror could be damn sneaky when he wanted to.

"Who?" he asked, rather pleased that his voice came out levelly.

"Weasley, of course. He's a tricky bastard, right up your alley." Moody snorted. "Got into all kinds of trouble in the Labyrinth when he started laying booby traps for the instructors chasing him."

James had to laugh. "Sounds smart."

"Too damn smart. His brother was the same way, though a bit more conventional."

"I thought you mentored Bill Wealsey?" James turned the statement into a question, scrunching up his forehead thoughtfully. He didn't know the younger Auror very well, but he knew enough to know that Bill had been doing pretty well for himself since Moody released him.

"That would be why I don't want the next one in line," was the answering snort. "From what I understand, the Weasleys have seven children. I'm sure I'll get another chance…_eventually_."

Moody's smile was wicked, and James laughed. Turning back to look at the gathered candidates, however, dulled his humor quickly. "Are you sure I should be mentoring _anyone?_" he had to ask, keeping his voice quiet.

"Better you than most of the others here," the senior Auror retorted. "You might be stupid—and currently playing hookey from guarding our very own pain in the ass—but you're one of the more senior Aurors left, Potter boy. You're what we've _got._"

James sighed. "I've been back less than a year."

"Too bad. Pick one and be done with it."

* * *

"What are you going to do?" McGonagall asked quietly.

She, Dumbledore, Severus, and Remus were alone in Hogwarts' staff room, though not by chance. Sprout _had _been playing chess with Remus before Minerva sent her off to investigate rumors about two Hufflepuff boys and their less-than-permitted-collection of enchanted hedgehogs. They'd tried to defend themselves with something about some Muggle game or another, but McGonagall, being McGonagall, would hear none of that. Besides, the story made for a convenient way to clear all the non-members of the Order out of the staff room.

Dumbledore popped a chocolate frog into his mouth. "About what, Minerva?"

"Don't play games with me, Albus," she glared in return. "I know you've been _planning_ ever since you heard about Millicent."

The headmaster was quiet for a long moment, and Remus couldn't help exchanging a look with Severus in the interim. How the two of them had stopped hating one another over the last year or so remained a mystery to all concerned; all Remus knew was that he'd grown to admire the Death Eater's courage and even—a bit—stated to…trust Severus. Now, however, he was far from happy to see that the Potions Master looked as worried as Remus felt. Dumbledore was hardly prone to rash action, but they all knew how desperate the war was becoming.

"There's not much I _can _do, Minerva," he finally answered in a soft voice.

She frowned but refrained from saying anything else; McGonagall was far too loyal a friend to voice the thought Dumbledore knew they all were thinking. But after several more moments of silence (with Severus looking pointedly at him the entire time), Remus had to speak up.

"What are you going to do about Botkins' offer?" he asked.

Dumbledore frowned. "The same thing I always have said, Remus. I am where I am needed."

"Except you're needed at the Ministry, too," Severus interjected bluntly.

"Severus—" McGonagall started to chastise him, but the Potions Master cut her off with a shake of his head.

"No. He doesn't have to fear you _here, _Headmaster. You know that. All he has to do is avoid Hogwarts and he's _safe._ You won't come out to get him, so you're a distant threat. The Dark Lord is beyond caring what you say on the WWN, and the Order is of minimal effectiveness. In fact—"

"That's enough, Severus."

When Dumbledore spoke in that tone, Remus doubted even Voldemort would have continued nagging him. Snape subsided, frowning—and Remus almost spoke up before stopping himself.

But he didn't want to press; he just wanted to know _why_. Dumbledore was no coward. He'd driven Voldemort out of Hogwarts once, and Remus knew he'd do so again. He wasn't afraid to court the Dark Lord's anger, so why did Dumbledore stay in the relative safety of Hogwarts when the Wizarding World was crying out for a leader? Millicent Bagnold had been as brave as she was stubborn, and they _needed _someone at least that strong to fill her shoes. Yet there was something in the ancient blue eyes…what _was_ Dumbledore afraid of?

_It's Grindelwald all over again_, Remus thought to himself. _He waited _how_ many years to take him down? However long it was, it was _too _long, and here we are in the same situation again. _Dumbledore _wasn't_ a coward, but he'd never told anyone why he'd waited so long before facing Grindelwald, either.

"Why don't you reset that chess board, Remus?" McGonagall broke the tense silence, her disapproval masked behind a light smile. Remus sighed, trying to ignore Dumbledore's distant stare.

"Sure."

* * *

_A black dog, whimpering._

_High-pitched laughter._

Flash.

"_Sometimes, I think about where we have all been…and then I realize that, had I made different choices, I might have been you."_

Break.

_James Potter, wheelchair bound, speaking in front of a huge crowd. "While we must remember and mourn those we have lost, let us also honor them by carrying on the battle that they lost their lives fighting. Together, we can and will succeed. Together, we possess the strength and courage to push back this encroaching wave of darkness. _

"_We will not surrender. We will not forget."_

Flash.

_The black dog again, with a Dementor hovering nearby._

Dumbledore tried to shake himself, but the visions would not go away.

_Four men._

_One man._

_Walking._

* * *

Peter sat alone in at the table, staring blankly at his chicken cordon bleu. For six beautiful months, he had thought that he had something special. He had even gone _ring shopping_, spending weeks searching for the perfect engagement ring.

Now he was sitting in a beautiful restaurant (in _France, _no less, where he'd paid for a wonderful first-class weekend vacation for two out of his mid-level Ministry salary), holding a thousand-galleon ring in his hand and wondering if he could return it.

James would have tossed the darn thing into the Seine, but Peter was too practical to do that.

_I suppose it figures_, he thought dejectedly. What was it that the Slytherins used to say about him as they laughed? _Little Peter. Always the last to figure out the obvious._

Was this what heartbreak felt like?

No.

He bit his lip, looked up at the sky, and then looked down at the ring he'd thought she'd love so much. Heartbreak wasn't losing Alicia. Heartbreak had been the day he'd betrayed his best and oldest friends by fighting against them.

"Miss me, Petey?" a giggle interrupted his thoughts, making him jolt in his seat, slamming his knees into the bottom of the table.

"I—uh—Bellatrix, um, really…" he trailed off, looking for anything to make her go away (would she hex him at a Muggle café?), but her eyes immediately went to the ring.

"For me? Oh, Petey, you shouldn't have!"

It was in her hands before he could grab it back, leaving Peter staring helplessly.

"That was—"

"For the idiot you wanted to marry, I know." Bellatrix slipped the ring on her right hand and twisted her fingers this way and that, admiring it in the bright sunlight. Of course, he'd chosen the sidewalk portion of the restaurant, which meant that at least the fallout of any curses wouldn't bring the building down upon them.

_Maybe I can do something right, after all._ The thought was morbid, but once upon a time, his friends had always told him to look at the bright side of things, no matter how bad life seemed to be. Peter almost snorted out loud, thinking of all the very wrong things he had done in his life.

_Just this once._

"Ravenclaws just aren't worth it, Peter," she continued more seriously as she leered at him. "You need a Slytherin if you're really going to succeed in life."

"I'll…keep that in mind," he gulped, his mind boggling at the idea that _Bellatrix _was trying to give him life lessons.

"I bet you will!" One quick stride and her hand was under his arm, pulling him upwards with a nasty jerk. "But for now, our Lord wants to speak with you. Immediately."

* * *

They all knew who James Potter was, of course—Charlie had even followed him when he played for Puddlemere United—and most of the (not-for-much-longer) candidates weren't really surprised to see him at the brief ceremony preceding their Mentor assignments. Most of the Aurors were there, after all. They were, however, more than a bit shocked when he stepped up immediately after Arabella Figg selected Ronnie Dorbes as her student.

_At least I didn't get Moody, _Charlie thought with relief. _I don't envy Joyce, though. I don't care what Bill said about him being _good_; there's no way he's any fun._

"Weasley, Charlie," Potter announced.

He stared, the words only somewhat making sense. That hadn't been _his _name.

Striker elbowed him. "Charlie!"

"Huh?"

Everyone was staring.

But it was Potter that answered: "You going to stand and stare, Weasley, or run away?"

His fellow candidates chuckled; Charlie flushed. Clearly, Potter had heard about his favorite (and infamous) tactic in the Labyrinth, where he'd run away from every creature that came after him until he managed to turn them all against one another or catch them in booby traps of his own making. The move hadn't been all that popular with his instructors (apparently they didn't like to lose), and he'd had to endure hours of lectures on how running away was rarely the answer. Still, Charlie was pretty sure they were only sore because he'd done the "impossible" and gamed the game.

_Move, Charlie._

His feet carried him to his new mentor…who just happened to be the most unorthodox Auror in the division. Was that a good sign?

"Sorry about the jibe, Charlie," Potter said in an undertone once he'd reached the older wizard's side. "People would look at me funny if I didn't joke about _something_."

Charlie found himself grinning. "No problem, boss."

"The name's James, mate. Boss makes me sound like Moody, and I _don't _look that weird. Oh, and if call me Jimmy, I'll hex you so hard that you'll think you're back in your mother's womb."

"Got it." Charlie had to bite back another laugh; his classmates were still being assigned mentors, and it wouldn't do for him to start giggling or jumping up and down with glee. _I'm going to have fun!_ Poor Bill had been stuck with Mad-Eye, but Charlie had gotten someone interesting, and he was going to enjoy every moment of it.

* * *

Two months and a disastrous New Years' raid on the Carrows' ancestral home later, Charlie was still having fun, for the most part. But the Wizarding World was not.

Albert Botkins had become Minister of Magic almost by default after Minister Fischer's death; Crouch had been kept out of the elections by an overzealous Auror protective detail, and Botkins had no serious challengers during the election. However, although his ascension brought no extraordinary violence with it, his influence did nothing to stem the tide of darkness. He and Dumbledore were at constant odds, arguing about everything from policy to the still-secret role of the Order of the Phoenix. Despite reaching out to Dumbledore before taking office, Botkins booked no interference once he was in power.

Even though the "Lincoln disaster" (as the raid on the Carrows' home was called by the Aurors) damaged the new Minister's reputation and brought public cooperation down below previously dangerous levels, Botkins continued to press policies contrary to Dumbledore's wishes. Late 1986 became known as the Battle of the Howlers, until an event came along that changed Dumbledore's role…permanently.

* * *

**The 1,879th Day: January 6, 1987 **

"I understand one of your colleagues have gone on vacation, Severus," Lucius said softly, fiddling with his wine glass.

"We do that from time to time," Severus replied dryly.

"During the school term? For shame."

But his friend's light tone sent a shiver down Severus' spine. "Is there a reason you're asking this, Lucius?" he asked carefully. "I do have to return to Hogwarts before dawn."

Lucius chuckled. "We wouldn't want your young Gryffindors to grow _suspicious_ now, would we?"

"I'm more concerned with my fellow professors," he retorted with a snort. "A bit of misplaced loyalty on their parts, and our Lord might be looking for someone new to spy on Dumbledore."

"Well, we can't have _that,_" Lucius drawled. Then he held the bottle of 1594 Cabernet. "More wine?"

"Thank you." Although his students would have had problems imagining Severus in the plush atmosphere of Malfoy Manor, he'd been visiting for years—and if his mother had been sure to teach him anything in his childhood, it had been old Pureblood manners. Severus might not have actually _been _a pureblood (though ever since he inherited the Prince position in the Fourteen Families, most people tended to overlook that), but he knew the rules.

They sat in comfortable silence for several long moments, each savoring the perfectly preserved French wine. Then Lucius spoke directly, losing his usual appearance of idleness.

"There _is _something the Dark Lord requires of you, Severus."

Something sick welled up in Snape's stomach.

* * *

**The 1,881st Day: January 8, 1987 **

The last they'd heard, she'd left Hogwarts to visit her sick sister. The next anyone knew, the entire staff and student body was attending the funeral of Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Even worse, they learned of the news from the _Daily Prophet._

**HOGWARTS PROFESSOR MURDERED  
****BY DEATH EATERS  
**_By Eric Dummingston, Special Correspondent_

ABERDEEN, Scotland. Muggle neighbors complained to their  
authorities about strange fireworks and green smoke lingering  
in the sky, but it was not until a day later that any local wizards  
thought to look into the problem. The Muggles had failed to open  
the locked and warded doors, of course, but eventually William  
Pieterscame home to find his wife and sister-in-law dead,  
with the Dark Mark still hovering over the house.

Thetis Pieters, age 79, had long been a respected researcher  
and historian with no political beliefs to speak of. So why was she  
murdered by followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? The  
answer probably lies with her younger sister, though why she "had"  
to die also remains a mystery.

Most of Wizarding Britian knows of Minerva McGonagall; many of  
us were even students of hers during her many years teaching at  
Hogwarts. Strict, but always fair, you would be hard put to find  
someone who did not respect her.

Except, perhaps, for her killers.

Why Death Eaters singled the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts  
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for murder—and felt the need to  
kill her less well-known sister as well—remains unsaid. Perhaps  
McGonagall's long professional relationship with Albus Dumbledore  
is to blame, or perhaps there is a yet unseen reason. Either way, the  
Wizarding World now mourns the loss of two influential academics.

Turn to page 9 for more on McGonagall's teaching history, or page  
11 for Pieters' history projects.

* * *

Two days after learning of her death, Remus was still in shock…but compared to Dumbledore's reaction, his own feeling seemed trivial.

He hadn't thought anything could destroy the indomitable old man, but this catastrophe had a fair chance of succeeding. The headmaster was _devastated_; Remus and Severus had to pry him out of his office to attend the funeral because he grieved so deeply that he was not ready to say goodbye. McGonagall had been his deputy for almost a decade, and had been his best friend for longer than that. Clearly, he didn't know what to do without her.

Yet the eulogy he delivered was perfect. Emotional but not heartbreaking, each word he spoke resonated in everyone present, and Remus saw more than a few students crying. Few could tell that a piece of Dumbledore had died inside, but Remus knew better.

Nothing would be the same from here on out.

* * *

**The 1,885th Day: January 12, 1987 **

By now, their "unplanned" arrival was almost tradition. Remus had no idea who had shared the news with James or Peter, but there they were in his quarters—complete with two bottles of Firewhiskey (because, according to James, _one _bottle was never enough).

"Deputy Headmaster Moony, eh?" James toasted Remus as he walked in the door, clearly not on his first drink.

"And head of Gryffindor, no less," Peter chimed in.

Remus managed a smile. McGonagall had been gone for only six days, and he'd held both jobs for less than ten hours. His emotional rollercoaster was far from over—he knew himself well enough to know _that_—but it was good to have his friends there. Good to feel…not alone.

"How did you two find out?" he asked, automatically accepting the glass James offered.

"Can't tell you," was Peter's immediate response, but when Remus frowned, James relented.

"Dumbledore told Lily. We figured you could use some company."

"It's a bit of a shock, yeah. I keep wanting to go ask her a question…" Remus sucked in a deep breath. That, and I've only been here three and a half years. I feel like I'm in over my head."

James put a hand on Remus' shoulder, squeezing slightly. He and Peter had both been at the funeral, but they'd had to return to work shortly thereafter; frankly, Remus was surprised that either had managed to get away, what with how things were currently going at the Ministry.

"That's how I feel in the Aurors sometimes," James sympathized. "Honestly, though. You're the only logical choice for the job. Can you see either Sprout or Flitwick trying to cope? They'd crumble in a minute. The only other choice would be Snivellus, and Dumbledore can't make a Death Eater his deputy, even if he is a spy. Don't repeat that, Pete."

Their smaller friend nodded. "Of course not."

"Brilliant," James replied with a smile, but Remus could not shake his own frown.

"I wish you wouldn't call him that."

James shrugged. "Who cares? It's only us."

"Because we're not children any more, and he's not what he was," Remus replied quietly. "He's a good man, and he's trying."

_And McGonagall's death hit him harder than I would have ever expected._

"Maybe."

"No maybes, James. I know you still see him the same way, but he _has _changed. You don't have to like him to recognize that he's trying to atone for his past."

Finally, James' hands went up in surrender. "All right, all right. I'll _try_, okay? No promises, and I'll definitely never like him. But I'll admit that he seems to be trying," he conceded.

Remus smiled a little, knowing that James meant the words—for once. James was a relatively simple guy when you got down to it; he said what he meant and meant what he said. But then Peter's pale face drew his attention.

"Wormtail, you okay?"

Peter blinked hard. "Yeah, sorry. I was just…thinking."

* * *

Ye Olde Other Author's Note:Finally, an update! I know, I've been terrible, but this story has been giving me fits over the last few months, why I don't quite understand. That, and I've had some major problems with FFN - I have been trying to update for at least two weeks, and I have not been able to edit anything in the HP fandom. I put in several trouble calls to FFN without any result...but apparently it works, now. But-please do feed the bear (my muse) and let me know what you think—more feedback always seems to help me write faster.

Stay tuned for Chapter 16: _"Further to Fall"_, in which an old friend of Dumbledore's appears, Voldemort plays politics (in the bloody ways only he can manage), and Charlie gets to play with dragons.


	17. Chapter 16: Further to Fall

**Chapter Sixteen: Further to Fall**

* * *

**The 1,888th Day: January 15, 1987 **

Almost three months after Bagnold's gruesome death, the Aurors had finally relaxed their guard on key Ministry of Magic figures. The first month had been tense and nerve-wracking, but as the days passed without any significant attacks (the six minor ones had only made it seem as if Voldemort was going through the motions), they started to breathe again. Even the failed Lincoln Disaster failed to bring a response, and slowly, the various ministers' security was transferred back over to their own departments, with assistance from the Hit Wizards. Thus, the Aurors headed back to their assigned role of engaging Death Eaters head to head, and life returned to as normal as it was during the war.

But the tick of suspicion had entered Moody's mind and it wouldn't go away.

"Um, boss…shouldn't we be with Figg for the briefing?" Joyce Rivers asked quietly. Like all of his students, she'd grown into her place and done rather well as an Auror—but for some reason, _this _student seemed to feel her most important duty was to impart social graces upon her wayward Mentor. Moody growled.

"Not now, Joyce."

"I really don't think that the Minister is going to like it if you blow off this afternoon's mission," she pointed out.

"I'm not," he retorted. "And anyway, Crouch doesn't know about it, so he can't be peeved."

"What?"

"Wait and see, youngling." He couldn't very well call her 'boy', after all, and calling her 'girl' seemed sexist. He seemed to recall Arabella lecturing him on that topic once or twice.

"You're an unbelievable pain in the arse," she groused, making him grin.

He didn't bother with more than the smile for his answer, though; Joyce had been with him long enough to know that he didn't mind the insult. Despite his fearsome reputation, no student of Moody's had ever been accused of being timid. He encouraged obnoxiousness, and like the others, Joyce fed off his bluntness and learned from it. Even if she _was _still trying to teach him manners.

"Oh, no, you're not going to—"

She'd discounted the fact that Crouch's guards were DMLE trained and were perfectly happy to step aside for the Head of the Aurors. And of course, Moody was equally happy to blow right past them and stride into Crouch's office, nevermind the closed doors.

"Of course you are," Joyce muttered, still on his heels. "What was I thinking?"

Moody's grin grew. "Hush, you."

Then he turned to face Crouch's livid face, the anger on which was rapidly shifting to resignation as he recognized his visitor.

"This had better be good, Moody," he snapped. "I have a meeting with the Minister in—"

"No you don't," Alastor cut him off.

"What—?"

"At least not until I'm through with you, you don't," he clarified, dropping the satchel he'd been carrying onto his superior's desk.

"I'm not amused," Crouch replied dryly.

Moody finally let his overblown smile fade. "Nor should you be. Ever wonder why Voldemort stopped attacking the Ministry so energetically? Or why missions have been harder and harder to get approved? I've got your answers, Minister, and it's not pretty."

"You have my undivided attention." Beady eyes focused on the pair of Aurors, but Moody didn't have to like his boss to respect him. _Even if he does have a real set of demon eyes._

"About time," he growled, but even Crouch didn't take that personally. In fact, he didn't even raise an eyebrow, which meant he was _far _too used to Moody. _I'm going to have to work harder on annoying him in the future. _The head of the DMLE even waited patiently while Moody bent over to open the satchel, revealing a Pensieve.

"I assume you want to show me something, but I _am _on a schedule."

Alastor didn't bother arguing. "Then watch this."

A flick of his wand brought shadowy figures drifting out of the bowl; though Moody could simply have sent Crouch into the Pensieve, there wasn't time for him to discover and watch each memory on his own.

"November 13th, 1985." He had to fight to keep his voice dispassionate, but this string of events was enough to rouse even his well-trained temper. "Botkins and MacNair meet in Knockturn Alley. We got this information from a spy that was killed in a raid two weeks ago."

"You killed your own spy?" Crouch sounded almost admiring; Moody scowled.

"Not on purpose," he grated out in response. _Assuming it was _our _fault at all._ "Now listen."

The voices drifting up to them grew clearer.

"…_will die tomorrow and you will become Minister of Magic," Macnair said, looking over his shoulder cautiously, but missing—or ignoring—the unseen watcher._

"_I will—wait, what?"_

"_Bagnold will die," Macnair repeated irritably. "If you want to live, you'll take her job. You'll help us from time to time, and we'll help you."_

"_But I've never…" Botkins trailed off._

"_Of course you've never been a Death Eater. And you won't be required to serve the Dark Lord in that capacity. You'll simply be expected to do a few smile things…"_

Moody slashed his wand, ending the scene. Even Crouch was pale with fury now. Joyce's eyes were wide, too—Moody hadn't warned her; this case was so sensitive that he'd worked on it during his off hours. He'd even run the spies himself, save for Dumbledore's hole card and the information he's provided.

"There's more," he said quietly, waving his wand again. "December 2. This time he's meeting with Urquhart."

The meeting was similar, but now Botkins was passing information…and betraying a raid in which three Aurors were killed.

"December 16th."

Another scene, now with a different Death Eater whom Moody had been unable to identify.

"January 9th."

Orders from Voldemort were being passed along; in one of the Minister's least popular moves, laws restricting access to certain potions ingredients had been passed. At the time, Moody had thought Botkins had simply been paranoid; now he wondered what Voldemort's motives were.

"I can show you other memories from six other meetings, two in the last week—and I witnessed those myself." Moody tucked the Pensieve away and closed the satchel. "He's dirtier than dragon shit, boss. I've got Aurors standing by to take him down within the hour."

Crouch blinked, clearly trying to swallow the news.

But to give the man credit, he rarely hesitated. "Do it," he ordered. "But keep the arrest quiet, at least until tomorrow."

Moody could see the logic in that; dinner time was almost upon them, and the _Daily Prophet_ couldn't ever keep a secret. Once the news was out, their hope of gaining any additional information became nonexistent.

"Yes, sir," Alastor replied, jerking his head towards his student. "Let's move, Joyce. We have work to do."

She seemed surprised—and pleased—that he'd been polite to his superior, but Moody hadn't suddenly developed social graces. He just knew that Crouch's week was only going to get worse from there on out…and being nice was Moody's way of apologizing.

Sort of, anyway. He didn't really feel sorry, but he felt he ought to make the effort.

* * *

Voices drifted into Sirius' cell; he'd missed hearing the footsteps through the haze of pain, but he could understand the words well enough now.

"Botkins is in Auror custody, Master," young Crouch was saying.

"Is that so?" Danger filled the Dark Lord's voice, and Sirius shivered despite himself; the habit was impossible to break.

"My father's ambition has overridden his common sense. He cherishes hopes that I will continue to advance in the Department of International Magical Cooperation," Crouch replied with relish. "He sees the arrest as the excuse to purge 'undesirables' from the Ministry and foresees advancement for me."

"You will accept the new position, of course."

"As you wish, Master."

A moment of silence passed and Sirius began to fear that they had left, and that this rare and unexpected connection to the outside world had vanished.

_I've almost forgotten that there's more to the world than this…place_, he realized with shock. _Have I spent too much time as Padfoot?_

That was a frightening feeling. Padfoot was his sanctuary, his sanity. Without his Animagus form, Sirius knew he would have long since gone insane—a year in Azkaban had taught him that already. But the dog could not be adversely affecting his mind already…could it?"

"Find Bellatrix," Voldemort ordered, making Sirius start—and then have to fight back a gasp of pain. "Botkins will die tonight. See that she takes her time."

Listening to those words meant almost nothing to Sirius, no matter how the tone could get beneath his skin and frighten him. Still, he was so disconnected from the world that he knew he wouldn't recognize something important if it hit him in the face, and all he could wonder was: _Who the hell is Botkins, anyway?_

* * *

James and Charlie had drawn the mission because of their Quidditch history, but James was certain that the mission planners had no idea how fascinated Charlie was by dragons when they'd made the assignment. _Otherwise, they'd have sent him to the other side of the planet instead of letting him follow dragons for two weeks. They _never _line people up with missions according to their likes. _But it wasn't inconceivable that the planners knew of James' childhood fear of the beasts. _That _would have lined up perfectly with their normal scheduling techniques.

"This is awesome!" Charlie called to him when they slowed enough for their voices to be heard over the wind.

"Yeah, following _insane_ dragons through the middle of the night, through the century's worst thunderstorm is _just _how I wanted to spend my weekend?" James shouted, trying to fight back his grin. The flying _had _been challenging, and he wasn't nearly as afraid of dragons as he once had been.

Charlie laughed. "Could be worse, boss!"

"Shut up!" He glared, but the look bounced off without his student noticing. The younger Auror continued to smile manically, but slowed his broom further and waved his wand to create a sliding bubble around them, which they needed in order to speak normally through the roaring wind.

Thunder rumbled ominously, closer than James liked to hear it when he was on his broom.

"I do think you're right, though," Charlie continued, losing the smile. "This is a wild hag chase. These dragons aren't working for anyone. The fact that they're travelling in such a large group tells me that they feel threatened, not that they want to hurt anyone."

"Five is a large group for dragons?" James asked blankly, having to bank with the wind to stay upright.

"Oh, yes. Pairs are much more common, but dragons tend to travel solo. They need a _huge _hunting range, and they're not great at sharing with anyone except their mate."

"I didn't know that."

"Most people don't." Charlie shrugged. "But I wanted to work with dragons when I was at Hogwarts. I studied a lot."

"Why not now?"

"The war got in the way. Figured I should do my part."

That feeling brought a sad smile to James' face. "I know the feeling."

James had just wanted to play Quidditch, but the world simply hadn't let things work out that way.

* * *

**The 1,889th Day: January 16, 1987 **

"You have got to be shitting me."

For once, his profanity didn't even make Joyce chide him. Like the other half-dozen Aurors in the room, she was too busy staring to care.

He'd never seen Arabella Figg so pale.

"Well, 'Bella?" he demanded harshly.

Still looking numb from shock, she shook her head. "I don't know, Alastor. The door was guarded all night, and we're the only ones who knew he was here. Us and Crouch, anyway."

"Little though I like the bastard, he's no traitor," Moody growled. "But _someone _is. When you left, who was in command?"

"That's the problem. I _didn't _leave." Her wide eyes focused on him, full of confusion and anger.

"What?"

"Someone got in, but I haven't the damnedest idea how," Figg replied bitterly. "We were on the door all night and we didn't hear a bloody thing, even though I _know _Lestrange took her good sweet time."

'Bella gestured angrily at the body of the Minister of Magic and the bloody mess still surrounding it. Moody had become an expert at visually estimating how long a victim had survived the attention of Death Eaters, and Botkins seemed to have lasted somewhere in the vicinity of three to five hours. Diagnostic spells would narrow that down further, but exactly how long mattered hardly at the moment.

What did matter was that _Love from Bellatrix_ had been written in blood on the floor, and that Botkins had been tortured to death right under the Aurors' noses.

"There's going to be hell to pay for this," he muttered.

"Tell me about it," 'Bella replied. "Oh, glorious. Here's Crouch, and judging from his happy expression, someone's already told him."

Alastor turned slowly. There was no need to hurry now, after all.

"How the hell did this happen, Moody?" their boss demanded immediately, his usually cool demeanor rattled.

"We don't know yet," Alastor admitted, "though I aim to find out and make someone pay."

A long moment passed in silence; Crouch seemed unable to take his eyes off of the mess than had been Botkins.

"Keep me informed," he finally ordered. "What about…him?"

"Closed coffin funeral. As soon as possible," 'Bella chimed in.

But of course, everyone left it to Alastor to ask the hard question: "Officially, he's still the Minister of Magic. What do we tell the Daily Idiots?"

"Nothing." Crouch was still staring at the body, but Moody could see the ambitious mind clicking away. "If we admit what he was doing—and that Voldemort got him so easily, despite our security—the Death Eaters win. He was working late and he had a heart attack, worn out by the stress of the job. Tragic accident, but no treason. Got it?"

_Damn. He's even colder than I am._ "Got it."

It was time to call Albus and see if his recruit was still willing to do the job.

* * *

**The 1,890th Day: January 17, 1987 **

**MINISTER OF MAGIC DEAD**

_By Eric Dummingston, Special Correspondent_

News from the Ministry today has revealed a shocking fact – that  
63 year old Terrance Botkins has died of an apparent heart attack  
brought on by the stress of his office. Found by his security detail  
in the early hours of the work day, Minister Botkins never returned  
home to his now heartbroken wife and children last night. Minister  
Bartemius Crouch, Senior, speaking for the Ministry, says that he  
died sometime in the night, and promises that the details will be  
forthcoming.

Although Botkins is certainly dead (though a closed coffin will  
undoubtedly spark conspiracy theories for years to come), the  
circumstances of his demise remain…sketchy.

"He was terrified," Colleen, his wife of 32 years says fearfully.  
"I think he'd been getting threats, but he'd never tell me." She sobs,  
but continues bravely: "I think someone wanted him dead. His heart  
was fine."

The mysteries continue to stack up. A heart attack in an always  
healthy man? A Minister of Magic terrified by threats? It doesn't  
take much imagination to discover where _these _clues lead, and  
eyewitness accounts support a grimmer picture.

"Botkins didn't die of a heart failure," an anonymous ministry official  
said on the condition that he not be named. "I don't know what  
happened, but his office was coated in blood, and I heard there was a  
message left behind."

Although no one at the Ministry has spoken up to share the contents  
of the alleged message, the truth seems to be more complicated than  
the stark facts that the government has released.

But perhaps that account is wrong. Perhaps it was a heart attack.  
There is a slim possibility of that being true. But whatever the  
message said, I think this was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named serving  
notice to the next Minister of Magic: your days are numbered.

* * *

Crouch started his election campaign immediately after learning that Amanda Peasegood, the Deputy Minister of Magic since Bagnold's death, had no intention of running against him. Peasegood had even tried to resign her current post after the rumors surrounding Botkins' death began to build—because there was hardly a soul in the Wizarding World who actually believed the official story. The good news, however, was that no one seemed to have guessed that the late Minister had actually been one of Voldemort's spies and had been killed because of his discovery. But Moody could live with that. After all, the only thing worse than the public terror caused by the _Daily Prophet's _half truths would be the mass hysteria the _actual _facts would cause.

Of course, Crouch took it all in stride as his power base grew, and that thought made Alastor turn to his companion.

"Are you sure about this, Albus? Crouch isn't that bad of a sort, even if he is a cold beast."

"He lacks a moral compass, you mean," Dumbledore replied, giving Moody a hard look from down his long nose.

Moody shrugged. "People say the same thing about me."

"But there are lines you refuse to cross, even when your superiors condone it," Albus replied softly. "I am not so certain that I can say that about Barty."

"Hell of a thing to condemn a man on, uncertainty."

"True. But war is hardly fair, is it? We need someone whom the Wizarding World can follow in good conscience."

He met Dumbledore's eyes brazenly. "They'd follow you."

"I'm not the leadership type," the headmaster replied with a soft chuckle, but Moody could see that he'd struck a sore point.

"Horsehit," he replied conversationally.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. "That's hardly the point of this discussion."

"It's because of Grindelwald, isn't it?" he demanded.

"I said that I am not discussing this, Alastor." The other wizard's voice was suddenly hard, and though Moody met his angry gaze, doing so took an effort.

"You say so," he replied after a moment, shrugging. The air between them remained charged with electricity, with…with what? Moody waited a long moment, letting Dumbledore know that though he might be quiet, he wasn't willing to believe a word of the headmaster's excuses. Then he obligingly changed the subject. "Is he still willing?"

Dumbledore's features softened. "He knows his duty, so yes. Yes, he is."

* * *

**The 1,894th Day: January 22, 1987 **

"So, who did you vote for?" Bill asked, sliding up next to his little brother. To his credit, Charlie didn't even jump. Bill hadn't seen the next oldest Weasley boy in more than passing since Charlie started Auror training, but his kid brother had clearly learned a lot.

"Not you," Charlie shot back.

"I was hoping that you'd actually read the ballot this year, but since you think I was on it, I can see that wasn't the case."

Charlie laughed. "I voted for Crouch. Who wouldn't?"

"Um." Bill glanced around. Most of the Aurors had gathered in the Division's Ministry headquarters to await the election results, but no one seemed to be paying much attention to the Weasley brothers. "Not me. Or a lot of folks in here, I bet."

"I'm not sure I understand," his brother replied cautiously. "I've always heard—"

"That he's an ass, but he's our ass?" Bill cut him off quietly. "He is. And from what Moody told me, he's not too terrible to work for…but I wouldn't want him as Minister of Magic, either. He's an ambitious weasel, and we've investigated his son at least five times."

"Seriously? I thought Junior just got promoted."

Bill frowned. "He did. Doesn't mean he's not a Death Eater; it just means we can't prove it. Daddy Crouch, of course, doesn't believe a word of it."

"I didn't know that," Charlie admitted quietly.

"Of course not. You're still a tadpole," Bill smiled. "How is your training with Potter going, anyway? I barely know him, aside from reputation."

Charlie's sudden grin could have lit up a chandelier. "He's fantastic. Sneaky as all hell. I'm having a blast."

"Auror training isn't supposed to be fun, you know," Bill had to point out seriously. _I don't think I _ever _described Moody in such glowing terms._

"So?" his brother shrugged. "I'm not saying that it's not stressful, or that it's not scary as bad breath on a dragon, but at least it's not boring, Bill."

If there was one thing he could count on, it was that Charlie would never change. "No. It's definitely not boring at all."

* * *

**LUFKIN RETURNS TO OFFICE**

_By Lydia Prewett, Senior Correspondent_

When Millicent Bagnold stepped up to become Minister of Magic  
in 1980, many mourned the loss of her predecessor's steady  
hand, which had shepherded Wizarding Britain through the tense  
years leading up to the war. But Lufkin did what he thought was  
best, demonstrating the self-same honesty that made him one of  
the most popular Ministers of Magic in history. Aging and not in the  
best of health, Inigo Lufkin stepped aside to clear the path for his  
energetic Deputy, the late and much-mourned Millicent Bagnold.

"My love for this job is why I must leave it," Lufkin said at the time.  
"I cannot bear to see anyone, including myself, fail to give Wizarding  
Britain the time and attention she deserves. And right now, my  
health will not allow me to act as I ought."

But everything changed just two days ago when names were taken  
for the rushed elections to replace the late Minister Botkins. Led by  
the Minister for Magical Law Enforcement Bartemius Crouch, the  
original candidates had been campaigning ever since Botkins'  
shocking death, but at the last minute the Wizarding World gained a  
sixth candidate—one who had returned to the fray after a well-  
deserved retirement.

"My duty is to do all I can for Wizarding Britain," Lufkin said upon  
declaring himself. "While Millicent was in office, I could convince  
myself that I had done the right thing, but after everything that has  
happened…well, here I am."

His presence resulted in a quick victory despite dismal voter turnout.  
Many Ministry owls, it seems, were simply returned with blank ballots,  
a situation which continues to show how badly Botkins' shocking  
death has frightened everyone.

Some wizards, however, are optimistic, including Hogwarts' enigmatic  
headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.

"I think Lufkin is exactly the Minister of Magic we need in such troubled  
times. He's a man of high courage, and I admire him greatly."  
When asked if he felt Lufkin could succeed in winning the war,  
Dumbledore's response is a mysterious smile.

"I think there are no easy answers, but great men are those who face  
The darkness in dangerous times. I have no doubts whatsoever that  
Lufkin will face the darkness."

Albus Dumbledore has long been considered one of the wisest wizards  
Of our time, and if anyone knows how to defeat a Dark Wizard, he does.  
So, perhaps there is a ray of hope, after all.

* * *

Inigo Lufkin assumed office with little fanfare, but the Wizarding World seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. No one thought that winning the war would be quick or easy—but perhaps it was _possible._

Frightened people began to venture out again. Neighbors invited one another over to dinner, and the number of anonymous tips sent the Aurors' way slowly started to increase.

Days ticked by, and Lufkin encouraged people to fight back. They _answered_, and recruitment went up across the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (so, too, for the Order of the Phoenix, but Dumbledore was not about to advertise that). The Death Eaters fought back, of course, but the Aurors gave as good as they got.

* * *

**The 1,900th Day: January 28, 1987 **

"I thought we should spend today together, Sirius," the soft voice said in his ear, making Sirius tense in fear. He wasn't sure when he'd regained consciousness, but he found himself, as usual, strapped to the Interrogation Chair with red-hot chains that burned his already charred skin.

What wasn't usual was Voldemort's presence.

He could not remember the last time he had seen the Dark Lord in more than passing. All he knew was that Voldemort paying _attention _to him never was good.

Sirius' vision swam.

"What now?" he managed to whisper.

Voldemort chuckled.

"Today is a turning point," the Dark Lord said quietly, stroking Sirius' hair.

He gasped, and fought back a whimper in pain.

_I will _not _give him the pleasure of hearing me whimper_, Sirius thought determinedly.

_Not again, anyway._

After so many years, fighting back his own reactions grew harder and harder.

So did fighting back the desire to just let go and die.

Motion caught his attention; Sirius could barely turn his head due to the chains around his neck, but he could see well enough to notice the trio of dementors drifting into the Interrogation Room. Coldness washed over him, and he shivered. Long fingers pressed into his cracked left cheekbone, and he cried out.

"Good. I didn't want to lose you there," Voldemort chuckled softly again.

"Hard to do that when I'm chained down…though I'd love the opportunity to wander off," Sirius wheezed.

"Amusing, as always. But your repertoire is lacking these days, my friend."

"Hard to figure…variety…when I don't get out much." Breathing was hard; his throat wanted to close in on itself. "And you're not my friend."

"Of course not."

A moment of silence passed as the Dementors halved the distance. Sirius convulsed helplessly, memories and terrors closing in on him.

"_I'll see you on the other end, Prongs."_

"_Did you miss me, cousin?"_

Howling pain.

"_Mandatus Pros—"_

"Now, now, Sirius. Concentrate."

The chains tightened and heated up further, making Sirius gasp his way back into consciousness. He whimpered in pain.

"Let us celebrate, shall we? You shall rejoice in living for so long—and for resisting me when no one else would. And I shall celebrate the victory your friends think they have won."

* * *

**The 1,924th Day: February 20, 1987 **

Dumbledore stood next to Moody as they watched countless flashes go off in the Minister's face, trying to blend into the crowd—or so he seemed to be, anyway, but Moody wouldn't put anything past the wily old man.

_The better I get to know him, the more I hate myself for liking him so damn much._

"What do you think, Alastor?" the bastard asked quietly.

Moody scowled. "Oh, he's doing well enough. He's even charmed Crouch into staying at the DMLE. Said he needed him too much."

"Good for Inigo." Dumbledore's smile was soft.

_The worst thing about him is that he really does care_, Alastor thought to himself. "Damn you," is what he said out loud.

Dumbledore didn't ask why, and Moody didn't say.

"…and finally," Lufkin concluded the press conference, "I would like to recognize the continuous and tireless work of the Auror Division, whose efforts in the last month have identified no less than _six _spies within the Ministry's hierarchy."

A murmur ran through the crowd.

"I can assure you that all have been arrested and will shortly face trial before the Wizengamot. I'm afraid that I can release no names at this time, but as always, I want to keep you informed. I also want you to continue to give the Aurors the credit that they deserve—for too long they have battled in the shadows for our freedom, and I, for one, would like to extend my heartfelt thanks for all they have done for us."

The resulting applause was thunderous, and Dumbledore shot Moody a triumphant look.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Lufkin and his assistant walked around a corner in Diagon Alley to find themselves face to face with Lord Voldemort.

Curses lashed out; Voldemort was shadowed by almost as many Death eaters as were in the crowd surrounding the Minister, and they attacked the staffers, the reporters, and three Ministry department heads. Within seconds, chaos reigned supreme; bodies piled up on top of one another, and those who tried to run were only cut down faster, green light filling Diagon Alley with an unearthly glow.

Lufkin stood his ground, but his courage did no good.

"_Avada Kedavra," _Voldemort whispered, softly and easily.

Dementors swept into the huddled survivors as the Minister of Magic crumbled to the ground.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Wow, it has been awhile, and I do apologize. However, seeing movie 7.2 (finally) has re-lit my HP writing muse, so here we go again! Stay tuned for Chapter 17: "Hope and False Hope," in which Charlie gets to chase dragons, Death Eaters invade the Ministry (again), and Moody picks a fight with Dumbledore.


	18. Chapter 17: Hope and False Hope

**Chapter Seventeen: Hope and False Hope**

* * *

**The 1,926th Day: February 22, 1987 **

Two days passed before the terrified riots calmed down, before the bodies were cleared out of Diagon Alley, and before the Dementors returned home to Azkaban. Funerals were held, family members were mourned, and the Ministry took stock of its losses. After the body count was complete, Ministry staffers discovered that the Deputy Minister of Magic and the heads of International Magical Cooperation and the Department of Magical Games and Sports had all been killed, in addition to dozens of assistants and staffers. The head of the Department of Mysteries was also missing; her body had not yet been found, but several witnesses claimed to have seen her Kissed, which meant that her soulless body could have wandered anywhere since.

The Dark Mark lingered in the sky for three days before dissipating, but it lasted far longer in the public's nightmares; nothing any political figure could say stemmed the tide of panic. Eventually, however, even this kind of public hysteria had to wear itself out.

When the shock finally began to lift, the Ministry's protocol office began taking names for the next set of elections.

* * *

**The 1,928th Day: February 24, 1987 **

In the end, only three wizards and one witch put their names in, and the election was scheduled for the fifth of March, just eight days away. The Aurors formed guard detachments on each one of them, determined to prevent a second massacre. In the end, however, all the protection was of no use. All it did was get Aurors killed.

Karen McNathy, the Muggleborn of the bunch, went first, dying painfully in her own home during the darkest hours of the morning. Her children found her the next morning.

Patrick Croaker and Cuthbert Mockridge were next, both on the same afternoon. No one ever found out how Mulciber and Flint gained access to the Ministry, but both candidates were found dead at their desks after missing their respective morning meetings, just minutes before news of McNathy's death was released.

The last candidate, however, was a bit more complicated.

* * *

"Get down!" Moody barked, shoving the gray head back down behind the makeshift barricade. "You stupid son of a _bitch_. I told you this would happen!"

"Less swearing and more cursing!" 'Bella snapped at him, interrupting his unusual display of tempter. _"Impedimenta!"_

"Damn you." That was directed at their boss, of course, not Figg. _She_ spoke good sense; Crouch was just an idiot. _"Everbero, Stupefy, Avada Kedavra!" _

None of the three hit, making him snarl.

"_Resiacio!" _A desk reared up and threw itself at Rodolphus Lestrange, but his wife blasted it into smithereens before he could be properly flattened.

_It had to be all three lunatics, didn't it? Not to mention Mulciber and Flint. I'm sure they showed up just to make my day better._

"_Rumperis!"_ Rabastan Lestrange's bone breaker slipped through Arabella's shield and hit Moody in the right side of the chest; before he could stop himself, he wheezed out a short scream, ribs cracking and shattering. Rocking back hard, Moody lost his balance and wound up falling out of his crouch and onto his rear with an uncomfortable _thump_. Inches away, Crouch stared at him with wide eyes, thankfully still behind the barricade Moody and Figg had hastily erected.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _

"_Carnificius!"_

"_Offenvox!"_

Arabella was hit, though she wasn't down. He could hear her gasping, though, which meant there wasn't much time to get his own ass in gear. Moody shook himself, forcing his mind to focus and to ignore the pain.

"_Brevisalvum Mali,"_ he hissed as his deputy ducked behind cover.

She looked at him dizzily. "We are absolutely screwed, Alastor."

Three or four curses sailed over their heads; they came too fast for him to count. "Yep."

Grinning, the pair brought their wands up together. Neither bothered to aim (or even look) before firing their next spells off.

After all, it was hardly _their _fault that the Death Eaters had attacked the two Aurors when they were meeting with Crouch. And neither really minded if they destroyed their boss' outer office in the process of defending him; Moody had never much liked the décor, anyway.

Destruction was a good distraction, and they didn't have to win. If they held out long enough, the rest of the Aurors would show up, and then the Death Eaters would be sorely outnumbered.

"_Conteriaco!"_

"_Stupefy!"_

"_Evanescorpus!"_

"_Offenvox!"_

"_Extundo!"_

Crash.

A bit of ceiling landed on them—a rather large bit—making Moody dodge right. He thought Arabella went left, but couldn't be sure.

"_Extundo, Everbero, Capitiscindis!" _he shouted, grinning as two of the three hit Bellatrix Lestrange. She reeled away from the fight, bleeding heavily.

_I hope that kills you, you crazy bitch, _he thought viciously.

"_Iugulra!"_ Her husband sounded offended.

"_Vexameum!" _His brother sounded amused.

"_Contegorum!" _Moody's shield caught both; he could hear Arabella dueling with Mulciber and Flint somewhere off to the side, but couldn't see them through the cloud of dust.

Time to turn a disadvantage into an opportunity.

"_Everbero, Conteriaco!"_ he shouted, but didn't wait to see if they hit. Instead, he threw himself sideways into a roll to the right, coming out from behind their barricade and into a dueling crouch.

As a rule, most Aurors did not favor the old dueling crouch unless they had something to hide behind. Most hated it, in fact, and few were good at it. Moody was.

His wand stabbed out.

"_Suffocum! Petrificus Totalus! Imperio!" _One hit Rodolphus, though Alastor wasn't quite sure which spell did.

"_Crucio!"_ He dodged that one, still firing curses.

"_Reducto! Everbero—" _Quick turn to the left and fire at Bellatrix, who was back up and bleeding less. _"Avada Kedavra!" _

He chanced the last one, dearly hoping to knock one of the Lestranges _permanently _out of the fight—but no such luck. Bellatrix Apparated out of the way, and dozens of voices suddenly filled the room.

Red light split the air over his head, and Moody threw himself flat, swearing. "Watch yourselves, fools!"

_Crack. Crack._ The male Lestranges were gone; Moody swore again.

"_Stupef—" _Potter's voice and Arabella's came together.

_Crack._

_Crack._

"Damn." Figg sounded pained, and Moody knew that had nothing to do with her physical ailments.

"Sorry to show up late for your party, boss," Potter said jovially, offering Moody a hand and helping him to his feet (or foot and peg, anyway). "They came ready. We got your alarm charm right away, but there were some fiendish booby traps in our path."

The younger Auror frowned, the lines around his eyes betraying his worry despite his light tone. "I think they managed to key them to the alarm and wards, actually. We'll have to look at that."

"Damn right we will." But even his usual snarl was softened by admiration. 'Bella had been right about this boy—he just kept thinking further and further outside the box. And judging from the ease at which young Weasley was operating, Potter was training another star, too.

Moody scowled to hold back his smile. _Can't seem too pleased. Might ruin my image._ He'd never say so, but he was proud of young ones like Potter and Weasley. They were the future, after all—Moody had no doubts that his number would be called one of these days. He'd danced too successfully for too long; sooner or later, his luck would run out.

"Any loses?" he asked Potter.

"Some injuries from the traps, but nothing much. The _other_ Weasley managed to dismantle them pretty well—mine likes dragons, not booby traps." His grin was nasty. "But we're going to have to spend weeks undoing whatever they've done to the wards throughout the Ministry. All five of them Apparated out of here, and they used our own alarms—"

"Alastor, you had better get over here."

Arabella's voice sounded like it came from the other side of the grave, and he hurried to her side, ignoring the way his ribs creaked in protest. What he saw made Moody go white.

* * *

"Where's Dumbledore?" Snape asked quietly during lunch.

Remus shook his head. "I'm not sure. He disappears more and more often these days."

"I know." Severus' voice was grim. "I couldn't find him this morning, either."

"Any news?" Remus knew where Severus had been the night before, of course; ever since becoming Hogwarts' Deputy Headmaster, he had become more and more aware of Severus' role as a spy.

Not a day passed that he was not frightened for the man he now called his friend.

Severus shook his head. "Nothing that matters. I am still living under a cloud after that incident with the Dementors in Hogsmeade, and what I know is limited."

"I'm still surprised that you survived that," Remus said softly.

"So am I," was the dry response.

Just a few months before, Severus had been the sole warning before a dozen Dementors descended on the Wizarding town near Hogwarts. Although he'd tried to cover his tracks, it was hard to shift the blame when Hogwarts professors evacuated the town just minutes before the creatures arrived. Remus was quite certain that the only reason Severus survived was because Voldemort _wanted _him to be Dumbledore's spy (at least half the information Severus had shared over the years had been on Voldemort's orders, after all)—but Voldemort still did not approve of his pet professor taking the initiative and sharing such crucial details.

Severus' defense that Dumbledore would have never trusted him again if he'd withheld the information had been only paper-thin, and Remus knew he always understated the punishment he'd received.

"I don't think I'll ever really understand you," he admitted quietly.

Severus snorted. "Then don't try."

Movement caught Remus' eye; Dumbledore was back, wearing the same sad look he'd worn for too long. But his long strides were confident enough, and Remus was certain that the students never noticed there was something amiss. However, he _did _sense that there was something different about the headmaster. Something new.

"Trouble?" he asked as Dumbledore slid into the chair to his right.

Momentarily, the blue eyes slid out of focus. "I'm not sure."

* * *

"_Adficios Vos." _Moody cast the spell without thinking, without considering the catastrophic consequences of doing so after casting a Quick Heal on himself not too long before. The spell did exactly what it was designed to do, transferring strength from Moody to the recipient. Color immediately returned to Crouch's blood-covered face—and Moody felt his own body convulse in protest.

But he was still conscious, and that was all that mattered. Crouch wasn't (who had gotten through to him, anyway? He was willing to bet Bellatrix, the sneaky bitch), and though that presented something of a challenge, it was probably a blessing. At least Crouch couldn't complain when he wasn't awake, and that was a bonus all in itself.

But their boss was still bleeding badly. Very badly.

Moody raised his wand, but was forestalled.

"_Constosanguim." _Potter cast the blood replacement spell, crouching at his side. "We've got to get him to St. Mungo's before it's too late."

"St. Mungo's might not be safe, James," Arabella warned quietly. Like Moody, she was beat to hell, but they were both too experienced to care.

"We don't have a choice." He hobbled to his feet, barking out orders. Everything hurt, but there was no time for that. "Potter, you run security for the Minister. Joyce, get your ass over here and buddy-Apparate him over; you're the only one I trust not to splinch him. Jordan, you're Potter's second in command. 'Bella, find the other department heads and warn them off. This might be part of a coordinated attack. Then get yourself healed.

"Hoyt, sound the alarm—but mind the booby traps! I'm sure the bastards left more than the ones we already found, and we can't afford to have anyone else suckered in to them today. I want the Ministry empty within the hour. Silent as a grave. We can't defend it 'till we fix things, so get the potential targets out of the building."

Everyone acknowledged his orders quickly, and his own student disappeared with Crouch and a full dozen Aurors in tow. Arabella lingered to ask:

"What will you do?"

Moody scowled. "I'm going to Hogwarts."

* * *

"Thanks for coming, Remus," Peter said quietly.

"Anytime. Something bothering you?" his friend asked as he slid into a seat at one of Diagon Alley's many cafes. The umbrella overhead was in an atrocious pink-green-yellow plaid, and it looked far more cheerful than Peter felt.

Of course, he'd chosen the merriest looking one on purpose, but on second thought, the contrast between his face and the umbrella was probably only managing to highlight how horrible he looked. Thankfully, he had a prepared answer ready.

"Just work, y'know? It's been…stressful."

"Yeah, I know the feeling. Ever since McGongagall died, I've been busier than I thought possible…and in way over my head."

_That's one way to put it._ Peter barely managed to stop himself from frowning as he thought of his own 'work'. Or not work, anyway, as it had almost nothing to do with his actual job in the Department of International Magical Cooperation…if one didn't count the promotions that Death Eater influence had gotten him.

"I feel like that, too," he said instead. "The new job's crazy. I've only been in it a week and I feel like I'm…"

"Going insane?" Remus suggested helpfully.

"I was going to say woefully inadequate," Peter managed to laugh as he replied. "But insane works, too."

Remus laughed with him, and surprisingly, sharing time with his friend made Peter feel a little bit better. Even if he wasn't actually telling Remus what his problems were, sharing them…helped. Mostly.

"But the money's good, right? From what James told me, it's an impressive raise."

"Yeah, it is. And it's…well, it _is_ really nice." _Even if I'm pretty sure I didn't actually _earn_ it._

"I know what you mean. It's nice not to have to live off of charity, even if it is friends who are helping," Remus replied.

"Exactly." Because Remus _did _understand. Peter hadn't ever been as bad off financially as Remus was after graduation—even with his mother and sisters to help support—but James and Sirius had both helped him from time to time as well. Like Remus, he'd always been ashamed to need the help, and it felt good not to lean on anyone else for survival.

_But at what price, Peter? _his conscience asked him. _You betrayed your friends…and the "small" betrayal gets bigger every day. What's next, Wormtail?_

_What happens when you can't even stop _yourself _from hurting them?_

"Let's eat," he said to Remus, hating the way his voice wavered.

Good friend that he was, Moony ignored the badly-hidden fear in Peter's voice. He nodded with an understanding smile, gesturing the waitress over to take their orders.

Peter almost wished that Remus would ask. He wasn't very sure that he'd lie.

* * *

**The 1,930th Day: February 26, 1987 **

"Butterscotch."

Nothing.

"Lemon drop."

Moody glared at the still-closed door, already sick of guessing passwords.

"Jelly Baby."

Still nothing, and he'd had enough. Lifting a fist, the Auror banged hard enough on the door to wake the dead. _Bang. Bang. BANG!_

"Damnit Albus, you know I'm out here!" he bellowed. "Open the door! I don't give a hair off of Merlin's bony ass if you don't like what I have to say!"

His words would probably traumatize a student or two if they heard him, but Moody was beyond caring. He had had _enough_. Two days ago, he'd told Albus about the attacks on the four would-be Ministers of Magic, and had hoped that the headmaster would come up with an answer. Today he was _bringing _his answer and would be damned if he would leave without shoving it down his old friend's throat.

"Stop being a coward!" he hollered when there was no answer.

Long seconds pass in silence before the door slid open.

Step, thump.

Step, thump.

He'd always hated stairs, even before the wooden leg.

Step, _thump_.

Finally he reached the top, only to find Dumbledore sitting serenely behind his desk, calmly tucking a golden pocket watch back into his robes. "Good afternoon, Alastor," the headmaster said with a smile. "I did not expect you back at Hogwarts so soon."

"Stuff it." He didn't sit down. "We have a problem, you're the solution, and I'm not leaving here until you accept that."

"I beg your pardon?"

By now he could see the strain in Albus' eyes. _Good._

"You know the situation. _You _know what's happening. We're facing mass hysteria because no one can stand up to that bastard—don't argue with me, Albus; I said they _can't,_ not that they won't try—and there's only one way out of this other than death," Moody said grimly. "_You _know what that is, and I'll come out and say it even though I know it's the last damn thing you want to hear."

"Alastor—" Oh, that was a warning, but he ran right over it.

"We need you. Not here behind the bastions of Hogwarts as a symbol—we need you as a _leader._" There. He'd said it, and the world hadn't exploded. Dumbledore, however, looked severely unhappy…though that didn't stop Moody for so much as a second. He only glared at the headmaster.

"You've got to take the job, Albus. No one else will last six seconds as Minister of Magic."

"I am really not the leadership type," Dumbledore replied with a shake of his head. "Not of the type you need, anyway."

"Horseshit."

He met the older wizard's eyes brazenly as Dumbledore stared at him in now-shocked silence. No one had _ever _called Hogwarts' headmaster on why he was determined to stay in the shadows, but Moody was done playing nice. _Yes, I'm going to say _this_, too. _And he wasn't sorry.

"Look, I know you were friends with Grindelwald. I even know you were thick with him in the beginning, and I'm smart enough to figure that's why it took you so long to take him down. Probably that's why you decided to stay out of politics and the like. But now isn't the 1940s, and Voldemort isn't Grindelwald.

"We _need you._ I don't give a rat's ass if you feel responsible for Voldemort's rise because he was once your student. Which is a load of bull, anyway, and you know it. You can't hide in shame any longer. _Step up._ We need a leader, and you're all we've got."

A long moment of silence filled the headmaster's office; even the portraits on the walls were staring at Moody with horror-filled eyes. Had anyone ever dared say something like this to Dumbledore? Probably not.

When Dumbledore finally answered, his voice was heavy with sadness.

"I have never remained at Hogwarts out of shame, Alastor," he said softly. "I have shied away from power because I fear what I might become under its influence."

Perhaps the man had a point, but Alastor wasn't in the mood to feel pity. "Can you be worse than Voldemort?" he asked bluntly.

Dumbledore blanched. Moody didn't wait for him to answer.

"I didn't think so."

"You argue a strong case, Alastor," came the sigh after a moment.

"That's the idea," he agreed gruffly. "You going to do it, or do I have to yell at you more?"

Dumbledore rose. "I suppose I had better inform my successor, then, ought I not?"

Now it was Moody's time to stare. It took all of his self-control to keep his jaw from dropping, too. "You've already picked one?"

The old twinkle was back in the blue eyes, but Dumbledore did not bother to answer.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Stay tuned for Chapter 18 "Friendships Unbroken", in which Dumbledore gets busy choosing a successor, delivering a letter, and visiting an old friend. In the meantime, please do review!


	19. Chapter 18: Friendships Unbroken

**Chapter Eighteen: Friendships Unbroken**

* * *

**The 1,933rd Day: March 1, 1987 **

_I have the Wizarding World at my feet, and yet I am still not satisfied. Sirius' defiance continues to mar my victories, and I am beginning to rethink my previous decision to mold him to my purposes and return him to his friends. He is not as malleable as I hoped, despite the years of work I have put in. Even my dear Bellatrix has done no more than frighten him—though frighten him she has. But his resilience continues to surprise me, though by now I should be used to it._

_I am beginning to think that there is only one way remaining to me, assuming I still want to force him to my will. Yet that is a step I have never taken before, and I must research further._

* * *

Remus stared at Dumbledore, barely aware of Severus' shocked presence to his right. He was glad they were both sitting down, else their legs might have given out.

"Let me get this straight," he said, finding his voice. "You want to make a _werewolf_ Headmaster and a _Death Eater_ deputy?"

Remus knew his voice was harsh, but he couldn't help it. And Severus' derisive snort only underscored how ludicrous the idea sounded.

"You know that Hogwarts does not look at you that way, Remus," Dumbledore said earnestly, practically radiating honesty. Then his eyes softened. "And you know I trust you both. I know where your loyalties lie, Severus, so do not use that as an argument, either."

"This is insane," Snape replied flatly. "All other…issues aside, Remus and I remain the youngest professors on the staff, and clearly the least experienced. And that's not even considering the well-known history of bad blood between us."

"A history I do not doubt the two of you will use in the years to come," Dumbledore smiled, but cut Remus off with a raised hand when he opened his mouth to argue. "Wait.

"The pair of you are the most dynamic leaders at Hogwarts, in addition to being the most powerful wizards here in an age where power _matters_. I know that neither of you will hesitate to do the right thing when called upon, and _that _is why I want you. Both of you. For all of your faults…but especially all of your strengths.

"Neither of you has led an easy life. Remus, you have faced discrimination every day since you were bitten, and you have become stronger than any of us because of that. Severus, you clawed your way upwards as a half-blood in a pureblood world, and then turned your back upon every advantage you had gained and every friend you had made because it was the _right thing to do_. And for years you have continued to risk everything to save people you barely know. People you hate, even. How can I not admire your strength?"

Not since they were fifth years had Remus seen Severus so embarrassed. While they both continued to stare, Dumbledore continued:

"I have not demonstrated the same resilience or courage you have both shown over the years." The headmaster winced slightly, but then his features hardened with resolve. "But the time for that is over. I must act, and I can think of no two wizards whom I can trust more to care for those I leave behind."

His blue eyes searched both faces, making Remus' heart flutter in his throat.

"Will you take up the burdens I must lay down?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

He glanced at Severus, seeing his own worries, fear, and pride mirrored in the other's expression.

By now, he knew Severus Snape well enough that no words needed to be exchanged.

_Did you ever even _dream _this day would come when Dumbledore told you that you might go to Hogwarts after all, or have you been terrified to _hope _since Greyback bit you? _he asked himself. _Time to decide your future, Remus. For the first time in your life, the choice is yours and yours alone. _The prospect was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. His chest was tight with anticipation.

Remus took a deep breath, and then nodded.

"We'll do it."

* * *

Dumbledore left Hogwarts for the last time with his head held high. Watching him, no one would have guessed that he was near to breaking down inside; for over fifty years, the school had been his life, the place he had poured his soul into when his lofty dreams failed. Everything he had been since defeating Grindelwald had been wrapped up in Hogwarts; he could hardly conjure up a self-image that did not involve the place. He had loved—did _love_—Hogwarts like he had never loved anything or anyone else…but his place was no longer there.

The thought burned, but it also brought relief. The loss of one best friend had brought him to Hogwarts—and now the loss of another drove him away. Alastor's words had not been enough to pry him loose (as angry and as truthful as they had been) but the slow realization that Minerva would never return had done him in.

Hogwarts was empty without her. Professionally speaking, Remus was a perfectly acceptable replacement, but Albus _missed _her. She had been more than his deputy; Minerva had known Dumbledore better than he knew himself, and she had filled the emptiness he had found in himself and had been unable to conquer. Her death had hit him slowly, more in the little ways than the big ones—he would never again listen to her welcome the new students, would never find cat hair buried in inconvenient places, and would never watch her try not to laugh at her own house's antics during Quidditch games. Everywhere he looked he expected to see her, and when Moody had confronted him with responsibility, he finally found an excuse to leave without running away.

He blinked.

_A black dog stumbling through the same gates he was now walking out of—_

Dumbledore stopped, taking a deep breath. The visions were only getting more frequent as the war worsened, and sometimes he wondered if the Font understood what was happening in the outside world. _Will it wonder why I am so far away?_ he thought, but the only answer was another image.

_Grindelwald's enigmatic smile. "Dumbledore removed one Dark Lord and cleared the way for the next…"_

He shook his head to clear it. "Yes, it is time," Albus said quietly to himself.

The groundwork to secure Remus' place as Headmaster was already complete; the board of governors was not delighted, but they were too beholden to Dumbledore to argue. He had known that Remus would accept, so Dumbledore had started to prepare long before he had bothered to ask his replacement. Now it was time to change history in another way, and he glanced down at the note he had found sitting on his desk—now Remus'—that morning.

_I will put our name in for election and deal with the media frenzy. You will need to begin preparations for the Safe Harbor today if you are going to manage by the fifth._

_Voldemort has noticed that he is no longer a resident in the fortress. I do not know if he has discovered when or who managed such a breakout, but be on your guard._

_I would wish you luck, but I know you will do fine._

_-Albus Dumbledore._

* * *

"I do believe your day has arrived, Albus," he called when the door opened, not bothering to look up from the chess set he'd been straightening. "How many Ministers of Magic will you let fall before you act?"

He could hear the frown in his old friend's voice. "Too many."

"Reconciled to the future, are you?" He couldn't resist chuckling.

"I cannot afford to hesitate, Gellert."

"Of course you can't. I'm hardly the shining example of heroic virtue, and even _I _am almost tempted to act. Tom has gotten entirely out of hand."

"Does that mean you'll help me?" Dumbledore was good at concealing his emotions, but Gellert had known him for too long and could hear the hope in his voice.

"Perhaps quietly," he conceded, half-hating himself for offering. Being evil was just _easier_; there was so much less responsibility. Gone were the days that he had dreams of changing the world—now he simply wished to survive it. _Prison will do that to you, I suppose,_ he thought darkly before forcing himself to laugh. "But you have given me such an outstanding alibi that I dare not act openly. Someone other than Tom is bound to notice."

Dumbledore stepped up to reorganize the tarot cards on the front counter. "Has he visited you again?"

"Oh, of course not. He's not such a fool. If he acts against me, he might drive me onto your side."

"So you don't plan on doing anything." It wasn't a question, but Gellert answered anyway—frankly, he was surprised that it had taken so many years for them to have this conversation.

Perhaps the proximity of March 5th had finally prompted Dumbledore to take action.

"Not my fight, Albus," he said gently.

"It's _everyone's_—"

"But _you're _my friend, so I'll help you. Quietly," he interjected. It was amazing how the years could make their old friendship-turned-enmity turn into friendship again. "I promised to behave myself, not crusade on the side of the light. Tom might notice me if I did, and can you imagine _that _war?"

Judging from Dumbledore's frown, his imagination was as vivid as ever. Gellert giggled, unable to hold his mirth back.

"Besides which, think of the public reaction if _Grindelwald _should suddenly reappear and claim to be _good_. They wouldn't believe it any more than I do, and they would probably lynch me on the spot. Assuming I let them, of course."

"This isn't funny, Gellert."

"Of course it is. Your sense of humor is simply inversely related to your sense of responsibility. You're running for Minister of Magic in fourteen days. You're not going to find anything amusing until the war is over."

A long moment of silence stretched out between them, making Gellert turn to face his longtime house guest.

Over the past twenty years, Dumbledore had come and gone seemingly at random, off doing whatever it was he did, fighting the war from the shadows and manipulating everyone he could. Mostly, though, he'd been waiting, and over the last few months he had stayed quietly in the second bedroom above Pendulum Games.

"I doubt that I will see the end of the war, my friend," Dumbledore said softly.

"_What?"_

Speaking around the sudden lump in his throat was hard, but he managed to get the question out.

"I am…you know about my visions," Albus replied slowly. "I am becoming increasingly convinced that whatever happens, I will not be there at the end."

"That doesn't mean you'll _die_." A world without Dumbledore was simply unthinkable.

"True." But he could tell that Dumbledore thought it did.

Gellert refused to think about losing his oldest friend. Refused to even contemplate it. "You've seen pieces of what you think is the end. One man—or four men—walking, you said. That could be you. Or it could be something else entirely."

"Perhaps." Blue eyes met his, strangely calm and accepting. "But I am not the one man, or one of the four. Nor are you, if that matters."

"I am utterly relieved," he responded lightly, but his mind was elsewhere.

_If you kill him, Tom—if you _can_—I will move against you. You won't see it, because oh, I will be _quiet_, but you will rue the day you destroyed Gellert Grindelwald's best friend._

Albus was watching him carefully, and Gellert almost asked why…but in the end he decided that he really didn't want to know. Knowing Albus, he was looking for a way to manipulate him, and Gellert just didn't feel like playing that game today.

"You know, it's a shame that you refused to rule the world with me," he said lightly. Grinning. "We'd have none of these problems, though we might have had to pull in a third co-ruler and make it a triumvirate in order to keep from killing one another. I suppose we could always have used one of Aberforth's goats, for that. What do you think?"

Much to his surprise, Dumbledore burst out laughing.

* * *

"James!"

Charlie burst into his office with such violence that James was on his feet with his wand in hand before he even noticed he was moving. His first reaction was to wonder if the Ministry was under attack, but there would have been alarms and—

"Check this out," his student exclaimed, waving a newspaper in his face.

"I would if you'd hold it still enough that I can read it," he retorted, trying to hide his reaction.

His heart was pounding madly, and it took all the self-control James could muster to keep his voice level.

Charlie grinned. "Sorry, boss. But this is what we get for coming into work late—we miss all the great news."

"If you're calling it good news, I'm wary," James chuckled, but he snatched the _Daily Prophet _out of his student's hands, whistling softly once he read the headline.

"Wow. Oh, _wow._"

* * *

**DUMBLEDORE STEPS UP**

_By Lydia Prewett, Senior Correspondent_

Longtime Hogwarts headmaster and supreme icon in  
the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, has put  
his name in as a candidate in the upcoming elections for  
Minister of Magic.

Yes, you read that right.

Albus Dumbledore has long been a legend in the Wizarding  
World, even from before his defeat of the Dark Wizard  
Grindelwald. Thought the most powerful wizard of this age,  
he has been a symbol for those fighting the Death Eaters,  
despite being the "mere" head of a school. But until last  
night—at the very last moment for nominations—there were  
no indications that he might seek a more active role in the war.

"The time for fighting from the shadows is over," Dumbledore  
announced at the hastily-convened press conference. "For too  
long we have _all _waited for someone to save us, and the days  
of doing that are over. I, for one, am willing to step forward  
and accept the challenge of fighting back. And I ask you all to  
help me, for no one wizard can do this alone."

When asked if he was frightened by the recent deaths of  
Ministers of Magic or candidates for the office, Dumbledore  
smiled.

"Fear is only a tool our enemies can use if we allow them to.  
We are strong enough to resist. We are more than strong to  
save ourselves. I will not ask anyone to fight if I am unwilling  
to do so—so there you have it. Here I am."

There you have it, indeed. It remains to be seen if He-Who-  
Must-Not-Be-Named will dare strike at Dumbledore; one  
imagines that a Death Eater attack would expect little success.  
There is always the possibility that Hogwarts' former headmaster  
will be disposed of as easily as his predecessors, but most  
witches and wizards polled feel that is unlikely.

No other candidates have put their names forward for election,  
which is scheduled for the fifteenth, although there have been  
repeated calls to cancel the election and simply give Dumbledore  
the job today.

* * *

Voldemort put the newspaper down with a smile. Bellatrix had delivered it and had retreated with unusual haste—it seemed that even she feared his reaction. _Oh, how little they know me._ In time, he supposed that he would be every bit as angry as his followers feared, but for the moment, he relished the challenge.

Over the years, Dumbledore had persisted in hiding from him, but now he had come out into the open. He would be difficult to dislodge, but in the end he would go. Had Dumbledore remained at Hogwarts, Voldemort would have always had to watch his back. Now, he could dispose of Dumbledore and then deal with the werewolf at his leisure, all without worrying about when his old teacher might decide to poke his head out from the shadows once more.

"Well, Severus," he said softly, turning to the one Death Eater with the courage to remain in the room with him. "Are you settled in to your new position?"

"Yes, Master." The Potions Master was a man of few words, but when he spoke he often had something worth listening to. His quietness often led Voldemort to overlook anything save for his role as a useful spy, but over the last few months he had begun to step forward more often. Voldemort had many useful tools, but not so many insightful assistants.

"I trust you will continue to cultivate Dumbledore's 'friendship', despite his departure."

Severus' smile was thin. "I will, My Lord. He views me as a protégé of sorts, and I will continue the relationship. I expect I will be no more useful than your other spies at the Ministry when it comes to policy, but Dumbledore will continue to work outside the Ministry. He has already indicated that he expects the Order of the Phoenix's influence to increase, and I remain a trusted member."

"Excellent."

A moment passed before Severus spoke up. "If you desire, Master, I could—"

"No," he cut him off. "Dumbledore lives. When he fails like the others, the sheep will cease to see him as such an icon."

"Yes, My Lord."

Severus betrayed no disappointment, but Voldemort would not forget the offer. The Potions Master might have been slow to develop into more than just a loyal follower, but Voldemort would take a care in how he used him from here on out. Instinct told him that this one would be worth grooming.

* * *

**The 1,936th Day: March 4, 1987 **

Peter had not expected to be back at Hogwarts so soon—or at least not with James. Given how busy the Auror was, Peter found himself staying with Remus during most full moons; even though the Wolfsbane potion made the nights much more bearable for his friend, he still liked to keep Remus company. Besides, being Wormtail was still fun, which was why he'd drawn the job of scaring their old friend out of his wits.

Prongs, of course, was too big to play, so Wormtail got to do this one on his own. The stag's giant span of antlers would hardly fit up the Headmaster's spiral staircase, anyway. Wormtail, on the other hand, had crawled up unnoticed on Snape's heels.

_Slimy git,_ he thought to himself.

But Remus' new deputy was gone, and Wormtail was halfway up the staircase, discovering for the first time what a painful process climbing them was for a rat. Peter wasn't the most coordinated person at the best of times, and his Animagus form was no exception to that. Of course, he _could _have climbed up as a human, but Remus' hearing was much more sensitive than most humans', so he might notice that—and Wormtail was just plain quieter than Peter.

Finally, he reached the top of the stairs, hugging the wall and peeking carefully around the corner. Remus was at his desk, reading something—he looked bored, like he was forcing himself to focus. _Good news for me_, Peter thought delightedly. Remus was _excellent_ at forcing himself to concentrate; he would notice nothing short of a bludger smacking him upside the head (the Marauders had tested that theory more than once, too). Wormtail was home free.

Scurrying forward, he rushed from the shelter of the staircase to a bookshelf, then from there to underneath a giant stuffed armchair. It looked comfortable; Wormtail sniffed the leather leg and decided that the chair smelled comfy, too.

Remus sighed and unrolled another foot of the scroll, now looking annoyed. Wormtail took advantage of his friend's movement to scurry the last half dozen feet, slipping under the front edge of Remus' desk.

For a moment, he contemplated simply waiting Remus out and then letting (human) James through the door so they could both surprise him. But that wasn't the plan, and as funny as it might have been, Peter doubted that the new headmaster would be willing to spend as much of the evening celebrating (and drinking, of course) as either of the other two Marauders wanted. Remus tended to take assignments like this seriously, and long experience told Peter that nothing short of Armageddon would dissuade him.

Not that either of them really had the time to spare—James was busier than ever and Peter's entire department had spun into disarray the moment Dumbledore announced his candidacy. This was, in fact, the first time Peter had been able to get away at all. He'd been sleeping in his office for the last three days between Apparating to eight different European nations (three of them twice), and while his recent promotion brought with it an exciting amount of increased responsibility, he was dead tired.

Belatedly, he cut off a yawn that had snuck in while his mind was wandering. At least Wormtail was quiet—although Peter's yawns as a human tended to be loud and dramatic (no matter how much he tried to control them), the rat did not so much as squeak.

_Concentrate, Peter. This is the fun part!_

Scurrying forward, he peeked his head out from under the desk to try to catch a glimpse of the clock from his hiding place, but the angle was all wrong. However, the giant portrait of Dumbledore on the wall behind Remus' desk winked at him, making Wormtail bite his tongue to stop himself from squeaking out laughter.

Yeah, it was time. James would be there any moment, now.

Remus' robes were only inches from his nose, and if he wiggled just right—he waited until he heard Remus unrolling another section of the parchment he was reading, and darted forward. There was a fold where the cloth puddle up on the floor, and Wormtail slipped inside it.

He paused just inside the hem of Remus' robes, sucking in another deep breath. The worn robes—no longer ratty since Remus could afford better, but still worn because he was frugal by habit—smelled like childhood. They smelled like safety, like _home_.

_Everything was so much simpler back then_, Peter thought sadly, fighting back the pang of regret. He missed their Hogwarts days, back when everything had been straightforward…and the Marauders had been whole.

He missed Sirius, even though they rarely talked about him. To do so was to reopen old wounds, just like remembering the past did. The Marauders tried to focus on the happy times and not on what they had lost, but coming back to Hogwarts always made Peter remember.

Resolutely, he shoved the feelings away. He could not change the past, but he _would _protect his friends in whatever way he could. He had chosen fear over friendship once before, but although he could not change that decision now, he would never repeat it. Everything he did from this moment forward would be to make sure that the Marauders remained unbroken. No matter what it cost him.

_Enough of that! _he told himself. Now was not the time for regrets. Remus had not noticed him yet, and the other Marauder really should have known better.

Very carefully, Wormtail reached out a delicate claw to pull Remus' left pant leg away from his skin. He could sense a sudden change in Remus as the werewolf started to realize that something was amiss—but Peter did not give him time to consider _what_ might be wrong. Using Remus' sock as a point to jump off of, he launched himself upwards, climbing rapidly upwards and intentionally letting his claws tickle their way up Remus' leg.

Remus shrieked.

The reaction was completely understandable, to be honest. He'd been caught completely by surprise, and suddenly this _creature _was clawing its way up his leg.

Clawing with extreme gentleness, to be sure, but still clawing.

And Remus had always been extremely ticklish.

Not even half of those thoughts managed to work their way though Peter's mind before he started to lose his grip, of course. Remus rocketed to his feet, tipping his chair over in the process, and—as far as Peter could tell—dancing a frantic jig.

He was probably reaching for his wand even now, but—

"Remus, are you all right?"

There was James, right on cue, barging into the office, probably with his own wand in hand. At the same moment, Remus managed to stamp his foot hard enough to shake Peter loose, and the rat went sprawling to the floor. He landed with a hard _thump_, but preserved enough presence of mind to scurry back under the desk, lest he be stepped upon.

"I don't—I'm not sure," Remus answered James' question, sounding flustered. "Something crawled up my leg."

"Something _what?_" He could hear James struggling to keep a straight face.

"Some creature or something—I don't know. I didn't see it."

"You sure you didn't just dream it, Moony?" the Auror asked with a chuckle. "You look pretty worn down—"

"I'm not crazy, and I wasn't asleep!" Remus snapped, sounding flustered. "Something was in here."

Fortunately, Peter could tell from his tone of voice that Remus was about to look under the desk, which afforded him the opportunity to slip deeper into the shadows. It wouldn't hide him for long, but that wouldn't be necessary.

"Moony, I think you're going loony," James replied, making a great show of looking around the office.

"Prongs—!"

"I'm jus' stating the facts as I see them, Moony. Maybe this headmaster stuff is going to your head and making you crazy. You _do _look tired."

Remus' response was lost in Peter's sudden squeaking of laughter. He simply couldn't hold it back any longer; James sounded so earnest and Remus _did _sound ready to go insane—or to strangle James, which was much the same thing.

Less than a second passed before their friend realized he had been pranked.

"Wormtail!" Remus howled.

He barely managed to squirm out from under the lowest portion of the desk before transforming back into Peter, but since he was still rolling on the floor laughing, he avoided hitting his head.

Peter could not see James from where he lay on the floor, but he could hear Prongs' laughter as well.

"I'm going to kill you two!" Remus tried to snarl, but his anger was cut off by his own giggles.

Peter grinned up at him from the floor. It was the simple things in life that one enjoyed the most.

* * *

He had decided that his guest had been left in peace for far too long.

"Wake him, Bella," he ordered, watching fondly as she responded gleefully to his direction. It took her several efforts, but Bella's enthusiasm never waned. A giggle marked her final success, and she beamed at him.

"Now leave us."

She liked this order less, but obeyed swiftly, although she did cast one last look back at where her cousin was bound against the Interrogation Chair. He doubted Black would have been upright without it, and since Voldemort did not feel like looming over his pet project today, he was grateful for the contraption.

The door to the Interrogation Room clicked shut before he strode forward quietly, watching Sirius blink weakly. Exhaustedly.

He waited until he had the young wizard's full attention.

"I do believe your friends have forgotten you," he said softly, brushing blood-crusted hair out of Sirius' eyes.

"You keep saying that…as if I mind," his prisoner wheezed.

He chuckled. "I know you do."

"Better they forget me."

The defiance in those blue eyes was still the same, though was it wavering slightly? Perhaps.

"I grow tired of your rhetoric," he responded, allowing a slight edge to creep into his voice.

Sirius' instinctive flinch was gratifying, but his answer was not.

"So?"

His wand was in his hand before his prisoner could blink, and Voldemort pressed it deeply enough into Sirius' throat to make the other choke.

"I should kill you," he whispered.

Blue eyes met red.

"Go ahead."

* * *

**Author's Note:** _It appears that I am currently on a roll where the Unbroken Universe is concerned, and lately I've been able to write a good deal more than I have in months. So, stay tuned for Chapter 19: "For the Greater Good", in which Dumbledore is more than a little bit naughty. In the meantime, please review! _


	20. Chapter 19: For the Greater Good

**Chapter Nineteen: For the Greater Good**

* * *

**The 1,937th Day: March 5, 1987 **

His counterpart was making a speech at the Ministry today—he could hear it playing on the background on the WWN, and he paid half a mind's worth of attention to it as he worked. The poor fool had been roped into assuming office right away—for the first time in over four hundred years, elections for Minister of Magic had been cancelled due to public support for the sole candidate. That thought brought a frown to his face; he disliked it when circumstances led people to disregard important laws.

The radio crackled slightly, and his own voice continued:

"…_I am pleased to announce my choice for Deputy Minister of Magic, Bartemius Crouch, Senior. As you all know, Minister Crouch has headed the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for many years, during which he…"_

Turning back to the book in his lap, Dumbledore tuned himself out. Someday, he supposed, he would have to make that speech…but that was for another time. He was certain that he would say the right words when called upon. Time worked like that.

Ever since he had received that cryptic letter three and a half years ago, he had researched the Safe Harbor Charm. He had not studied it in over seven decades (and even then not seriously; it had simply been an afternoon's entertainment for bored and brilliant boys), but found the basic principles the same. He had long known that he would need only three or four days of preparation to complete the spell, although when Moody had come to bully him into becoming Minister of Magic, Albus had not yet been certain how he would carve out enough time to perform both the required spellwork and run for office at the same time.

He had forgotten that everything he had to do _he had already done._ Dumbledore had allowed himself to get overcome by events until he had received a letter from himself. Receiving _that_ had made him unearth the one he had received in October of 1984.

Smoothing the crinkled paper, he read it again:

_Dear Albus,_

_March 5__th__ of 1987 would be a good day for what you know you need to do. There is a lovely little shop at 72 High Street in Oxford, named Pendulum Games. The proprietor, I believe, is a stately old gentlemen who goes by the name of "G" Bishop. Perhaps you should play chess with him from time to time._

_And while I am making suggestions, there is a bit of magic you may want to look into, one I believe you studied many years ago. The name is entirely misleading, but I am sure you remember the Safe Harbor Charm._

_Your old friend,_

_Gellert_

_P.S.: Tell me that the shop was my idea._

* * *

He had never managed to drop by Pendulum Games to play chess, but somehow Dumbledore knew he would do so in his future, in the past. Today was the sixth, so today he would go to Numengard Prison and stage the most subtle jailbreak in history—one he would not see the results of for twenty years or more, assuming his calculations were correct. He had only seen his counterpart once, and that in the frenzied outcome of Voldemort's attack on Hogwarts. There had not been much time to talk, then, but Dumbledore assumed he would find out what happened in good time.

At least his counterpart had remembered well enough what he needed to do today. Dumbledore—_this _Dumbledore—had departed Hogwarts and left the interview with the _Daily Prophet_ to his elder counterpart, disappearing to a Muggle hotel not far from Numengard itself. Four days of quiet, however, was about all he could stomach; even listening to the WWN was not enough to keep his mind busy. During his many years at Hogwarts, Dumbledore would have said that he treasured peace and quiet, but he would have been wrong.

Now he had a bad feeling that he was going to face silence and inaction for far too many years, and the thought made a cold lump form in the pit of his stomach.

But when it came down to choosing between what was right and what was easy, he had always been predisposed to pick the harder course, no matter how unpleasant it would become. And this was _right_, no matter how legally wrong it would be.

Rising slowly, Dumbledore pulled his wand—once his old friend's—out of the pocket of his robes. It was time.

"_Cautufuga Iterum,"_ he whispered.

He had one hour, and then he would be moving through time if he wanted to or not.

* * *

"Are you all right, Albus?" she asked with concern.

"Hmm?" he blinked, and then seemed to focus. "Oh, yes, Lily. Of course I am all right. I was just…daydreaming."

Lily chuckled. "You, daydreaming? Never!" she teased.

"Oh, but I _am _a dreamer, Lily. A hopeless dreamer," her old headmaster said quietly, wearing a sad smile. "I always have been."

"Well, then I'm in good company," she said, squeezing his arm affectionately.

His eyes twinkled for a moment, and Lily was glad to see that she had brightened his mood a bit. She knew him well enough to understand that Dumbledore wanted to be the Minister of Magic about as much as he wanted to be immortal. He really did prefer to work from the shadows with organizations like the Order of the Phoenix, but she also knew that Albus Dumbledore would always step up when he was needed. Still, she allowed him to reflect for a moment before she asked:

"So, why did you call me in, Albus?"

He sighed quietly.

"I need your help."

* * *

He had never needed a cloak to be invisible, and today he was grateful for that talent. After all, he had never been the big battle type, and had no desire to engage in one today—all of Dumbledore's famous duels had been mostly individuals against individuals, even the latest one against Voldemort. Aversion to engaging in melees was one of the many reasons he had refused to pursue a career in one of the many areas that directly combated the dark arts, so many years ago.

If he played his cards right, he would not need such skills today, anyway. Dumbledore checked his pocket watch—not his actual watch, but the specially enchanted one he had received as a behest from his old friend Inigo Lufkin after his death. Dumbledore did not know where Lufkin had acquired it (though he could tell that the watch was not his work), but he had been checking it regularly since his friend's death.

The watch still read "_Chance_."

Dumbledore frowned. He had hoped that his—or his counterpart's, anyway—stepping up to become Minister of Magic would make the watch return to another setting. As odd as it sounded, even pointing at "_Danger_" would have been better than chance, because as Lufkin once told him, _Chance _described moments in which the fate of the entire Wizarding world hung in the balance, ready to tip either way for good or for evil.

When he had noticed what the watch was telling that him right before Alastor Moody barged into his office several fateful days ago, Dumbledore had assumed that it would change once he became Minister. Apparently, however, he had been wrong.

_Strange._ But there was no time to wonder why—the less enchanted pocket watch he still carried told him that he was down to forty minutes left. Twenty minutes had passed while he slipped into Numengard, uttering the soft spells that allowed him past the wards. He had researched the way in long ago, back when he had started campaigning for Millicent Bagnold to do _something _about Numengard's star prisoner. Even then, he had begun to suspect that he would have to act in order to save the world from what Voldemort might decide to do.

He knew Gellert well enough to know that he would not work with Voldemort by choice, but if the alternative was death, Gellert would cheerfully work with the Dark Lord up until the moment he could double-cross him. And while the strategist in Dumbledore thought that idea rather appealing, he could not in good conscience subject the Wizarding world to the fallout of such an endless battle.

And he did not think that Tom Riddle was foolish enough to kill Grindelwald, either. In the end, he would be the winner of any battle between the two, and the benefits of creating such chaos would only strengthen his position. No, he could not allow Voldemort to snatch Grindelwald out of Numengard, not under any circumstances. He was doing the right thing.

Even if his former best friend was going to mock him for it forever.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he cast the spell that put the on duty guards to sleep for just two seconds, and then used that time to slip straight though the door to Grindelwald's cell. He did not open the door—disarming the wards on it would have been far harder magic than just walking through the door would be, particularly for someone who had been doing such silly tricks since childhood. The magical effects of doing so were not undetectable, which was why he put the two guards outside the door to sleep, just long enough so that he could slip through the door.

Unfortunately, Gellert had watched him do the same trick thousands of times, and he started laughing almost as soon as both of Dumbledore's feet were inside the cell.

"Is this a social visit, Albus?" he chuckled, looking right at the invisible wizard he still could not see. "I understand the need for secrecy now that you're famous all over again and about to become Minister of Magic."

He was very glad that Gellert could not see his scowl.

But his continued invisibility did nothing to diminish his old friend's smile. Cheerfully, the prisoner waved a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "My guards thought that I might be flattered to know that the man who defeated me was about to become the most powerful wizard in all of Britain." He giggled. "I refrained from telling them about your aversion for power and how miserable you must be. I thought it might hurt their feelings."

Sighing, Dumbledore finally whispered the word that would make him visible once more.

"Hello, Gellert," he said heavily, the enormity of what he was about to do sinking in.

"Oh, you do look miserable, Albus. Come to commiserate and wish you had joined with me to rule the world? I doubt young Tom would have gotten nearly so far if we had been in charge."

The damnable thing about that was that he was right.

But he squared his shoulders and forced himself to face the facts. "I'm here for another purpose, actually."

Gellert had not aged well; the young man he had still appeared back when they dueled in 1945 had vanished. His blue eyes were still lively, but his face was lined almost beyond recognition, and he looked _old_. Dumbledore had grown accustomed to the changes in his own features over the years, but seeing Gellert so changed was a shock. Yet his smile was just as wide as Albus remembered, though there was an undercurrent of sadness that had not been there before.

_Forty years in prison will do that to a man, even to him_, Albus thought, feeling guilty. He had done what he had to do, but—_I put him here. I consigned him to this, even when I knew what he really wanted. And I always knew that he was never actually _evil_, too._

He almost felt like weeping. _His methods I disagreed with, but I do almost wish I had helped him achieve his goals. It might have been wrong, but we might well have avoided the horrendous war the world is now facing._

"Are you going to share that purpose, or will you make me guess?" his friend asked, forcing Dumbledore's mind back to the present.

_And I never even visited him. I should have. Much though I wanted to hate him, I never _could_, and these years must have been lonely for him._

Fortunately, the heavy regret he felt actually made saying the words easier—much though he was reluctant to do so.

"I'm come to break you out, actually," he admitted, trying his damnedest to keep a straight face.

He expected shock. He expected questions. He didn't expect Gellert to burst out _laughing_.

"Oh, beautiful!" his old friend cried, almost doubling over with laughter. "The great wizard, the law-abiding, self-sacrificing _Albus Dumbledore _has come to execute the greatest jailbreak of all time! And he's done it, no doubt, 'for the Greater Good!' Oh, the book I could write about _this_."

Albus tried to get a word in. "Gellert—"

"No, let me enjoy this. Really—your timetable can't be so close that you didn't allot me a few minutes to gloat, because you know me far better than that. _You _are going to break _me_ out of the prison that _you _put me in, all because you're afraid that young Tom is going to come rescue me." Gellert's eyebrows were dancing all over the place. "And then you're afraid that I might feel inclined to join forces with him, having lost my moral values somewhere in this dreary monstrosity that I built."

"You wouldn't join with him."

"Wouldn't I?" was the quick riposte.

Albus glared.

A long moment passed, during which the pair did not _quite _have a battle of wills; saying they each slowly grappled their way towards understanding one another after over forty years of separation would be more accurate. After a moment, though, Grindelwald shrugged.

"Well, you're right, of course. I wouldn't," he admitted. "Not unless there was nothing else to do, anyway. And I'd curse him in the back the first chance I got—might do the Wizarding world a service, in fact. But he'd expect that, so it could get messy."

Biting back the urge to say something pointed about Gellert's definition of _messy _was hard. He just waited.

"So…you whisk me off to safety, become Minister of Magic, and try to save the world. What's in it for me?"

"Freedom," Albus said simply.

"Not good enough," Gellert said immediately.

He frowned so hard that it hurt his face. "Would you rather stay here?"

"Would you rather I join him?"

"We've gone through this, Gellert!" It had been years since he had let his frustration get the better of him like this, but Grindelwald did have that effect on him.

"So we have," was the cheeky response. "What's in it for me?"

"Freedom," Albus snapped again. "Peace and quiet. A nice little shop from which you can watch _the Greater Game _unfold. A chess set with which to play it."

"A _shop_? Could you see me as a shopkeeper? Wouldn't that be rich." Blue eyes rolled, and Gellert muttered half under his breath: "A shop. You're going to have to do better than that, Albus."

He had to chuckle. "It was your idea."

"My idea? This ought to be good."

Instead of answering, Albus just reached inside his robes and handed Gellert the letter.

"I assume you'll recognize the handwriting," he commented mildly.

A few short seconds passed as his friend digested the letter's contents; Gellert had always been a swift reader. Comprehension dawned in his eyes, but the mildly amused expression on his face did not waver. He had seen that look before; it meant that Grindelwald was going to be difficult. Meanwhile, Dumbledore checked his watch—ten minutes to go.

"Sorry. It's not familiar." But he snuck a glance back at the letter while Dumbledore watched, just waiting. "You said a chess set. _Which _chess set?"

"Is there another? I rescued it from your old flat, the one you never let your followers anywhere near." Now Albus' smile turned sad. "It occurred to me that if I was going to ask you to simply watch, I should at least allow you to do so in a familiar fashion."

He could tell that _mattered_ to Gellert, but the other man looked at him incredulously. "And what, I'm supposed to promise to sin no more?"

"I'll settle for you staying out of things."

"What's the difference?" his friend challenged.

"I think that's for you to decide." Albus replied, knowing that doing so was a gamble, but needing to offer him _something_.

Their eyes met; a moment passed.

"Throw in a new bird, and you've got a deal. And…_please _not an owl."

"Agreed." Albus had a hard time restraining his smile; for a moment, it felt like old times, like fifty years of hatred had not passed between them and everything was the way it once had been. The feeling was so pleasant that Dumbledore wanted to weep.

_Don't think about that_, he told himself sternly. _Things can never be the way they were_. But Gellert always had had a love for exotic birds.

"We'll leave in…" he checked his watch, "six minutes."

"I'm a bit out of practice, so I do hope that you've woven the entire spell and aren't counting on me to do anything for it. If I recall correctly, the Safe Harbor Charm requires quiet a lot of preparation," Gellert replied, nonplussed.

"We'll wind up in a Muggle motel not too far from here," he answered, enjoying the sensation of not having to explain everything. No matter how many extraordinary witches and wizards Dumbledore had trained or associated with over the years, not one of them measured up to the standards set by Gellert Grindelwald.

"Uck. Muggles." But the sneer was for show, so Albus ignored it, and Gellert's mind swiftly returned to the subject at hand. "Twenty years, is it? That's going to be a long time to hide while I'm stuck in here. No wonder I decided to write you letters and goad you on."

"No wonder," Albus echoed. Four minutes.

Gellert chuckled again. "It's a shame that you already know there's two of you wandering about right now. Takes away all of the mystery about if we'll kill one another or not."

"I'm sure we'll try," he could not resist saying with an answering laugh. Oh, it had been too long! But he could not voice that. _Would_ not. "Let's get ready."

Three minutes later, the pair vanished into a swirl of light, spinning backwards through time to the safe harbor Dumbledore had designated. They both landed somewhat hard, retching; if Albus remembered correctly, Gellert had always been prone to motion sickness, and even Dumbledore's usually-stoic stomach objected to having been twisted through time in such a primitive fashion.

"That," his friend declared, "was not pleasant."

Dumbledore waved his wand to clean up the mess they'd both made on the floor, and Gellert gave him an annoyed look.

"And _that_," Grindelwald added pointedly, "is _my _wand."

Sighing, Albus reached inside his robes and pulled a second wand out. "Here."

_I am not going to argue about this, _he didn't add, but he didn't have to, either. Gellert seemed to scrape up a modicum of grace before replying:

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I'll take it back from you, you know."

Dumbledore smiled. "I'm sure you'll try."

* * *

**March 5, 1967**

A few hours later, eating shepherd's pie (Grindelwald's favorite food, although this variation did not seem to measure up to his standards, judging from his complaints) in a grungy looking diner, the Dark Wizard commented quietly:

"You don't think you'll survive this war. That's why you're letting me out to watch the Game—a Game which would be singularly boring if you defeat Voldemort in the first few years after those we just experienced."

_I'd been hoping that he'd not notice that. _Albus hesitated before answering.

"There's no way to know for certain," he said after a moment. "But I do know that victory will not come easily, and there will be nothing quick about it. You'll have plenty to watch."

"Those old visions?" his friend questioned.

In one hundred and fifty years life, Gellert had been the only one Dumbledore had ever told about them, and even to Gellert he had not explained why he had them. Oddly enough, though, even in their darkest hours, Grindelwald had never tried to use the visions against him.

"Yes," he said heavily.

Several more minutes ticked by in silence; Gellert scraped the remainder of his dinner out of the plate with gusto, despite his earlier disparaging remarks about the food's quality. But the silence was not awkward—not at all. It was simply…quiet.

"So, go forth and sin no more, eh?" Grindelwald asked lightly.

"Can you manage that?" he had to know.

"Obviously I have, or will, depending upon which way you're viewing the timeline at any given moment," was the easy response. "Though I will admit that I'm counting upon you to entertain me."

For a moment, he felt like a boy again, and Dumbledore grinned. "I think we'll manage."

It was 1967, after all, and Voldemort had barely begun to rise. The world was a quiet, peaceful place, and they might even have fun. Dumbledore might even be able to forget what task was waiting for him in twenty years' time.

For awhile.

* * *

Ye Olde Other Author's Note:_I've actually done it. This story (save editing) is actually complete. So, work allowing, I'll be updating at a faster pace as I get the rest of the story edited…and try to figure out if the epilogue I have in mind wants to be written or not. The jury's still out on that front, I'm afraid. _

_That said, in the meantime, stay tuned for Chapter 20 "Constant Vigilance," in which Voldemort makes a fateful decision._


	21. Chapter 20: Constant Vigilance

**Chapter Twenty: Constant Vigilance**

* * *

**The 2,374th Day: May 15, 1988 **

Dumbledore's ascension to the top spot at the Ministry really was the first ray of light in the darkness. Almost immediately, he acted to calm the public hysteria, passing sensible laws and assembling a team of solid witches and wizards to run the government's administration. Together with the Order of the Phoenix—still the shadowy arm that acted to undermine Voldemort on less official fronts—the Ministry finally seemed to regain some of the momentum in the fight against darkness. And little by slowly, the Wizarding World's confidence in the Ministry was restored, while Dumbledore was hailed as a hero.

No one ever asked why he chose to remain on the sidelines for so long, and the one old friend who would have had the chutzpah to throw his own cowardice in his face was too busy laughing.

"These fools worship you," Grindelwald chuckled as Dumbledore stepped into Pendulum Games one beautiful spring morning fourteen months after taking office. "Did you see today's headlines?"

Albus ignored the brandished copy of the _Daily Prophet_; he'd come to spend some much-needed time away, not to face _that_. The hero-worship had been bad enough during his years at Hogwarts, but at least there he had felt that he had a solid grasp on his own baser tendencies. Albus had never felt more like a spider at the center of its web than he did as Minister of Magic…and worse yet, he was beginning to _like _it. To relish the power he held.

He shivered. "I don't want to hear it, Gellert," he snapped.

"Ahhh. Enjoying yourself a bit much, are we?" his old friend asked perceptively, leading him to the back of the room where a familiar chess board waited. "Does it make you wish for the old days, Albus?"

"I am not what they think I am!" the words burst out of him without warning.

"No. You're so much more."

The frank response made him glower, but Grindelwald's answering smile was almost gentle.

"It's your move," the reformed (?) dark wizard said softly. It wasn't an apology, but Dumbledore knew from long experience that it was probably the best Gellert would offer.

"So it is," he sighed, reaching for the board.

They spoke no more of power, and Albus spent the evening with his old friend, relishing the opportunity to relax. Months had passed since he'd dared get away from the Ministry for something so minor as his own relaxation, and Dumbledore found himself reveling in the experience. Ever since taking office, he had not dared to let his guard down anywhere but here—Pendulum Games was the only place Albus could be certain that Voldemort would never follow him, because there was no Dark Lord in history foolish enough to take on the combination of Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

"It's almost eerily quiet," Gellert said after an early dinner they had picked up from the Muggle pub around the corner. (Snobbish though he was, Gellert had always had a weakness for Muggle food, and had never been much of a cook).

"I'm not certain I would agree," Albus countered. "Are you buy chance forgetting the attack on Nurmengard, that disastrous Death Eater attack on the STV main office, the murders of all those Muggles in Ottery St. Catchpole, or—"

Grindelwald waved a hand to stop him. "You need not go on, Albus. You've just proved my point, actually."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You just named the biggest three events of the last year, and they weren't very big at all."

"Hundreds of Muggles died at—" he started to protest hotly, and then stopped himself.

"Precisely. _Think_, Albus."

His mind whirled through the particulars quickly enough, and Dumbledore did not like the conclusion he came to. The world _had _been too quiet. Voldemort's followers had been active, but not nearly so much as they had before Dumbledore came to office—and Albus was not so foolish to think that his own reputation was quite that awe-inspiring. It took all of his self-control not to scowl.

As usual, Grindelwald was right.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked after a long moment of silence.

"Nothing, at the moment," was the unhappy response, and part of Albus rejoiced to see that his old friend actually _did _care about the war and about the fate of the world. But Gellert's next comment was supremely dispassionate: "Tom is not a patient sort by nature, so he must be playing at _something_, Albus. Figure out what, and you'll finally get ahead of him."

"You sound certain that _we _are not ahead of him," Dumbledore couldn't help saying.

The look Grindelwald gave him was scornful. "Please tell me that you do not actually believe that drivel you have just sprouted."

That made him sigh. "Not particularly."

"Good. I was beginning to wonder if you had truly become a politician!" Suddenly, the laugh was back, as was his friend's cheerful demeanor. Dumbledore, however, could only roll his eyes.

"Then what tune do you believe I am dancing to, Gellert?" he asked tiredly.

The other wizard snorted. "Oh, I don't believe I'm going to do your dirty work for you this time, Albus."

"That means you don't know."

"I haven't the faintest," Grindelwald admitted with a shrug.

Their eyes met, and understanding flashed between them. No, Grindelwald would never come fully in on the side of the "light", but he was worried enough to offer advice, at least—and well-meaning advice, at that. Dumbledore would never sink so far as to offer Gellert the partnership they had both once burned for, but there were times he was almost tempted—

_Don't think it, Albus. Not even for a moment._

With an effort, he turned his mind back to the chess game, certain that at least tonight would be quiet.

* * *

Six years, six months, and one day. Bellatrix had told him how long it had been that morning, in between beatings. Or had it been whippings? After a half dozen hours with only Dementors for company, Sirius simply couldn't remember.

Nor did he want to, really.

How had he wound up in an interrogation chair? The last he remembered, he had been locked in his cell with a trio of Dementors, listening to Bellatrix and Rodolphus exchange witty remarks concerning his pitiful reactions. Sirius was only half-aware of their presence, but knowing they were there was the only thing that kept him from losing himself and transforming into Padfoot for his sanity's sake. But Sirius was still rational enough to know that if he showed his Animagus form, he would give up the only advantage he had…and he was not quite so broken that he was prepared to do that.

There were days, however, that he started to wonder. Days where he worried about what happened in those sessions he could not remember, what the snippets of spells he heard in his nightmares meant—

"Are you drifting away on me so quickly?" the coldly familiar voice asked, jarring Sirius out of his drunken reverie.

He blinked slowly, painfully, trying to clear his vision. When Voldemort came into focus, the edges of his form were fuzzy and his image had a tendency to jump around. The dizziness was nothing new, of course—it had been his constant companion for the last two thousand, three hundred, and seventy-four days—but Sirius still hated it. Hated feeling helpless.

His desire to escape that was one of the main reasons he kept daring Voldemort to kill him…and more than half hoping that the Dark Lord would do it.

"Don't…get your hopes up," he wheezed, trying a cheeky smile on for size. But he didn't really feel cheeky, didn't really feel anything. Six hours of _Poenatoxicum _had wrung all the strength out of him, and Sirius was having trouble caring. At any rate, the expression surfaced as a grimace of pain, but at least it got the point across.

"Ah, but I would be terribly disappointed if you left," Voldemort countered him softly. Dangerously.

Sirius snorted, glad that it sprayed blood and yet disappointed that none of it got far enough to hit Voldemort. He would have liked to stain those expensively tailored robes. "Can't have that…now, can we?"

The Dark Lord chuckled. "No. We certainly cannot."

Sirius shivered. If Voldemort was agreeing with him, things were about to go very badly. Voldemort _never _agreed with him, and it was all Sirius could do to fight back the overpowering urge to just give in. Give up. Tell him whatever he wanted to know, give up whatever the Dark Lord wanted him to give, and just _end _it. He could do it, Sirius knew, could give in and still be safe in the knowledge that the Fidelius Charm had to have expired by now and James, Lily, and Harry were safe—

"I have a gift for you, Sirius," Voldemort interrupted his thoughts.

"Sorry if I'm not properly grateful," he quipped.

Suddenly, Voldemort leaned down to look in his eyes, close enough that even Sirius' dizzy mind _had_ to focus on him. For a long moment, nothing save those red eyes filled his vision, and uncontrollable shivers started running down his spine. Why was it that he suddenly now noticed how hard breathing could be?

Everything hurt.

"I am not looking for your gratitude, Sirius, although there are times you require reminding how grateful you should be that you retain your life."

"Ha." Agony welled up in his throat, bubbling over into a bloody cough. "I'm the one…who keeps telling you to kill me, y'know."

A cold smile. "I do find it interesting that you have begun to wish for death. Have you started to wonder what comes next, my friend? When the day comes where you truly understand that I am not going to kill you, and you must deal with the consequences?"

"If I'm not livin' those consequences now, you could've fooled me," Sirius wheezed, more out of habit than anything else. The words fell flat, anyway, lacking any sort of defiance.

Soft laughter was the only answer, and after a moment of glaring back into those haughty red eyes, Sirius had to look away. He hated to do it, to admit defeat like that…but he felt so damn empty. So lost. He'd never admit it, but what Voldemort said rang far too true. What next? If the Dark Lord would not let him die, what _then_? He shivered convulsively, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

"Everyone breaks, Sirius," Voldemort had said to him six and a half years ago. "It is only a matter of time and method."

No. He would not think like that now.

He would _not_.

"Bring it in," Voldemort finally ordered, and the interrogation room doors slid open to reveal Bellatrix Lestrange. The chains were too tight to allow Sirius to turn his head far—and the red-hot metal dug into his throat when he tried—but he thought he could make out a box in her hands. His vision wasn't what it used to be, hadn't been in years. Everything was blurry and grimy, and sometimes he wondered if he wasn't winding up like James and needing glasses. But he could see well enough as Bellatrix danced her way up to him, prancing like a schoolgirl.

She giggled, patting his cheek as she dropped the box into Sirius' lap. The soft touch made him moan, which in turn made Bellatrix bounce up and down on her toes in excitement. She turned a sunny smile on Voldemort, and it made Sirius' stomach turn. "He has no idea, My Lord."

"Indeed he does not." The voice was cool, but the slight smile was almost…indulgent.

Sirius felt sick, and he didn't think it was from the horrid smell waffling its way up to his nostrils. His stomach rolled again, rebelling against both the smell and the constant influx of spells and potions. Sirius didn't remember a time when he hadn't felt nauseous, hadn't felt sick with hunger and with pain, but it had just become a part of his life, now, and he just wanted to drift off.

Sod Voldemort's so-called gift. He didn't really give a damn, and he wasn't curious. Given that Bellatrix was around, he wouldn't' have much time before someone started laying curses into him, so Sirius would take the break he had while he had it. Ignoring the Dark Lord's patient expression, he let his eyes slide shut once more.

Bellatrix's pouting voice drifted down to him: "Poor little Sirius doesn't want to play, Master." She giggled. "Someone should tell him that only good boys get gifts."

_Go to hell, Trixie_, he thought in her direction, lacking the motivation to even voice the insult aloud. He was so tired, so damn _drained_; Sirius only wanted to tune them out and sleep.

"Cruico."

The curse came from Voldemort, smooth and utterly lacking in malice, but it made Sirius scream weakly and writhe in pain as far as the chains would allow him to. When the Dark Lord flicked his wand aside a moment later, Sirius was left shuddering and shaking, his eyes still shut as he coughed his way into breathing somewhat regularly. His chest was burning, and the room was spinning even when he couldn't see; Sirius felt like he had gotten stuck on a Muggle tilt-a-whirl. For a moment, he hoped he might throw up all over Voldemort, but Sirius lacked the motivation to be that obnoxious. The damn box was still sitting on his lap.

No, he wasn't that out of it, yet.

"I have a present for you, Sirius," the cold voice said for a second time, a bit less patiently than the first.

Sirius cracked his eyes open slowly, wondering all the while why he even bothered. It wasn't curiosity, not really, anyway. Maybe it was just an inner wish to be free of the pain for however few seconds it took Voldemort to show him whatever it was.

Slowly, the Dark Lord came back into focus.

"Recognize this?"

Something dangled in front of his eyes: a vaguely round shape, with something blurry on the top and blood dripping from the bottom. Some of the blood splashed onto Sirius' chest, but he was beyond caring. It simply mixed with his own, blending in immediately. He squinted tiredly as Voldemort jiggled the object, and then jerked back in surprise when he realized what it was. The live eye was sightless, but the magical one still rolled wildly, seemingly trying to search out an enemy and only finding Sirius.

"Oh, yes. Remember this day, my friend." The cold voice was impossibly soft. "May 15th, 1988. The day Alastor Moody met his end."

Sirius could only stare despairingly.

* * *

They never found the body.

The next morning, Moody simply did not show up for work. Usually obsessively early, Moody _was _prone to bouts of hard drinking after particularly bad days, so no one really thought much of it when he hadn't shown up in the Auror Division headquarters by nine o'clock, but when lunch rolled around, Arabella started to get visibly worried. James talked her out of going alone, only to wind up accompanying her to Moody's small flat. For good measure, they brought Charlie Weasley along—even though he was just about ready to be turned loose, he was still technically James' student—and the threesome spent a good five minutes standing on Moody's doorstep before venturing inside.

Thankfully, Arabella knew the key to dismantle the eighteen different layers of wards on the door, which saved them several hours of slogging through twenty years' worth of spells in order to get inside. Even then, it took almost another fifteen minutes to actually open the doors because everything had to be done in a very particular order—depending upon which day of the week it was, of course.

"He takes being paranoid a bit far, doesn't he, boss?" Charlie asked as Arabella finally turned the doorknob.

James snorted, cracking his first smile of the morning. Figg's irritation had them all one edge, and as her immediate underling, James had borne the brunt of her worry. "Constant vigilance, and all," he quipped.

"Oh. Right. I'd forgotten." His student chuckled quietly, earning the pair of them a glare from Figg.

"Come on, you two. Stop acting like adolescents sneaking around after hours and do your damned _jobs_," the senior Auror snapped.

James blinked. He hadn't heard 'Bella so worried since—well, he couldn't remember when something had rattled her so badly. _It's not like this'll be the first time some Aurors have had to come out here to drag Moody out of bed and out of a drunken stupor, so why the tension? _he didn't ask. He'd known Arabella a long time, and could read from her body language that she was well and truly concerned, which meant he only pulled his wand out and fanned to the right as they stepped into the flat. Charlie headed left, with Figg going up the center, and all three of them cast diagnostic spells immediately.

Nothing.

"Alastor?" Arabella called. "Get your bony arse out of bed and to work! I am _not _being paid enough to do your damn job at the Ministry, and you missed a meeting with Crouch this morning!"

Moody had been the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement ever since Dumbledore had ascended to the top spot and brought Barty Crouch, Senior, in as his Deputy Minister of Magic, but the irascible former head of the DMLE was still Moody's immediate superior, much to everyone's displeasure. And everyone knew that Arabella liked Crouch even less than Moody did, so if she'd had to meet with him in Moody's stead, that explained her sour mood.

"_Alastor_!" she bellowed furiously.

There was no answer.

James cast another diagnostic spell, but again got nothing in return. In fact, he was getting almost _too _much nothing—

"Something's wrong," Charlie breathed as Arabella used her wand to flick open the door to Moody's bedroom.

"You lazy son of a…"

The senior Auror trailed off into silence, staring. From his angle, James could not see the entirety of the bedroom, but he could see Moody's bed. Moody's immaculately madeand _unoccupied _bed. The bedroom was empty, too.

He could hear Charlie casting a life-form detecting spell with no results, but the pair of them still rushed to physically check every room in the small flat. But everything was neatly organized and empty. Completely lifeless. Perfect. Had Moody been this organized in his personal life? James didn't know, but he wouldn't have bet on it, having seen the state that the one-eyed wizard's desk was usually in.

Arabella met back up with him and Charlie in the living room, and her eyes were just a little bit wider than usual.

"He's gone," she stated flatly.

"We could have missed him," James countered without really meaning it, trying desperately to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

But it was Charlie who shook his head. "No. Or—maybe we could have," he amended when Figg speared him with a look. "But something's too perfect here. I'm not the expert at traps and oddities, but something's not right here."

Judging from the pinched expression on Arabella's face, she agreed, and James opened his mouth to express some sort of sympathy—until she killed that urge with a glare. A moment of silence passed before their boss spoke again:

"Get Hoyt and the other Weasley out here, and have them go over the place with a fine-toothed comb," she ordered James. "I'll contact the Ministry and make sure that we didn't miss Alastor by some miracle. Weasley, you're the one whose instincts are lighting off, so start crawling around and see what you can find."

"Yes, Ma'am," James replied softly for the pair of them. He almost never called her that, but given how angry 'Bella was, it was probably a good idea.

She didn't answer, instead turning to Moody's fire to contact Crouch, which left James to Apparate back to Auror headquarters and fetch the others. Fortunately, neither Bill Weasley nor Francine Hoyt was out on a mission, which meant the trio was back in Moody's flat within five minutes, ready to join Charlie in his quest to find any clues of what had happened. After finishing up her fire call with Crouch, Arabella united her efforts with their own, but by then no one was terribly hopeful. If Moody wasn't at the Ministry, and he wasn't at home, there was only one other thing he might have been doing—and Alastor Moody was far too paranoid to meet up with any of his spies without having told at least Arabella where he was going.

Three hours of fruitless searching later, Bill Weasley found the Dark Mark burned into the hardwood floor in front of the couch, carefully covered by three different spells. Just looking at it made James feel sick.

"Why would they hide it?" Charlie asked quietly.

"Because Voldemort's a bastard, that's why," Arabella snapped. She was blinking back something that looked suspiciously like tears, but James would never call her on it.

"Maybe it's something else—" James started, only to have his old teacher cut him off with a glare.

"Don't be any stupider than you were born to be, Potter."

"Sorry." Damn, did that word feel inadequate.

"They fixed the flat, too," Francine said after another moment, gesturing at a rugged-looking green armchair. "This chair was in at least three different pieces, and was repaired recently. So was the table, though I think that was in four or five pieces, perhaps more. And someone put a silencing spell on the mirror."

"They _what_?" three different voices asked, but it was Arabella who un-silenced the mirror and asked for its story.

By then, no one was surprised. The only remaining question was why the Death Eaters accompanying Voldemort—because the mirror _had _been able to confirm that the Dark Lord himself had been present—had bothered to fix the damage the flat had suffered during the climactic battle, but the mirror was able to tell the rest of the sordid tale. Moody had fought for some while (how long they did not know, for even enchanted mirrors had no real concept of time, and she could not see the clock from her space on the wall), but he had fallen.

"I think he might have been breathing when they took him away, dearie," the brass-framed mirror told Arabella Figg in closing. "But mirrors aren't exactly known for understanding the ins and outs of human life spans, you know."

* * *

Pen scratched on paper, the strokes made bold with triumph.

_It must be done. I will not countenance continued resistance, yet I would be a fool to discount the possibility. There is but one way to ensure I own his soul, and although it is a step I have never taken, I am now prepared to do so._

_I have not told my servants of this choice, not even my dear Bellatrix. To them, Sirius Black is nothing save a resilient prisoner, one whom they wonder why I devote so much attention to. Yet I have long since realized that this son of the Fourteen is not simply another Auror. Ergo, I will do what is necessary to shape him to my will. This moment, this victory, will be mine alone. One way or another, I will prevail._

* * *

_**Author's Note**_**:** I can't apologize enough for the delay, save to say that I managed to lose a large chunk of this story. It is, however, now complete, and I'll try to get the last four chapters (and the epilogue) up in the near future. In the meantime, stay tuned for Chapter 21: "Heart and Will", in which Voldemort acts to shape Sirius into the perfect tool once and for all.


	22. Chapter 21: Heart and Will

**Chapter Twenty-One: Heart and Will**

* * *

**The 2,381th Day: May 23, 1988 **

Moody was declared dead two days later; no matter how long or hard the Aurors searched, they all knew that no further evidence would turn up. A careful scrutiny of Moody's flat revealed no additional details about whatever battle had taken place, only that a battle _had _occurred…and if the mirror had been right, the Dark Lord had come after the famous Auror himself. It was the first time Voldemort had really and truly ventured out of Azkaban since Dumbledore had come to power, and although he had done so quietly, he had made a statement that no one could mistake.

Dumbledore spoke at the funeral, his voice heavy with grief and regret; he would never escape the feeling that he had somehow missed _something_, thereby failing to prevent Alastor Moody's death through his inaction. A shopkeeper of his acquaintance, of course, told him that wallowing in such self-pitying grief was the height of stupidity, but Albus had always been better at giving well-meaning advice than taking it.

James Potter, on the other hand, suddenly found himself elevated above the heads of his colleagues to become the head of the Auror Division when Arabella Figg moved upstairs to become the Minister for Magical Law Enforcement. Although many in the division were senior to James, none were more talented, and besides, he was popular with his fellow Aurors. He turned Charlie Weasley loose the very next day, proud to know that the only student he had taken on was already turning out to be a star. He didn't know when he'd have a chance to take another on, but at least he'd had a good start.

Trying to think positively was the only thing that kept the Aurors afloat in those first few crippling days; Moody had been an icon and a legend, and they had all thought him indestructible. No one had really thought that he could _ever _be taken down, even by Voldemort…and losing him ripped a hole in the Auror Division that no one could ever fill.

Nothing would ever be the same again, and they knew that.

Some tried to lose themselves in drink, and others buried themselves in family and friends. James tried to do both, heading out to Hogwarts with Peter to spend the full moon of the 23rd of May with Remus. They'd save the drinking for after Remus transformed back, of course, but at least he felt like he was doing something worthwhile when he was with his friends.

The three of them stopped by the tunnel where James' poem was hidden shortly before the moon rose, standing there in silence as they did at least once each year. Usually, they came down in November, on the anniversary of Sirius' capture…but for some reason, they found themselves down there that night, staring silently at the words that had described them as boys—and yet still did.

_True friendships never really die._

James did not want to read the rest, but his eyes kept straying back to those words no matter how hard he tried to look away. He had the poem memorized, anyway…but somehow that line kept sticking in his mind. What was it that Dumbledore had said at the funeral? _"Do not mourn a great wizard's passing and grieve for what he did not do. Emulate him. Seek to finish what he started."_ The Minister had been talking about Moody, but he might as well have been speaking of the Marauders' lost friend.

Unshed tears welled up in James' eyes as he stared at the poem he had written ten years earlier.

_I am, Sirius, _he promised silently. _I am._

* * *

**The 2,386th Day: May 27, 1988 **

Pain mixed with nightmares in a twisted version of reality; Sirius knew he was moving, but he could not feel the motion. The last twelve days, the days since Moody's death, had become yet another blur of pain and potions. Apparently, Bellatrix had not taken his attempt to ignore her _dear Lord _well, and she had endeavored to teach Sirius the error in his ways. The day long sessions had left him reeling, and they'd not given him more than ten minutes respite. When none of the torturers were present, Dementors were, and the fight was starting to eek out of Sirius at the same rate his blood left his body, but there was no replacement charm to fix that minor ill. It was all he could do to hang on to a small corner of his consciousness—the sane part of his brain wanted nothing more than to pass out, but doing so had ceased to be an escape years ago.

Years.

He hadn't truly _realized_ how long it had been until Bellatrix had told him so…and it had not sunk in until Voldemort had brought Moody's head. Until then, he could ignore the fact that the world went on outside these walls—or rejoice in the fact that it did. Until seeing Moody's head had reminded Sirius that time was the enemy, and that the outside world was not so safe as he remembered. He wantedto think of the outside world as a place where his friends were safe, where the constant pain and death could not touch those he cared about. He'd been wrong His head spun.

Fiery hot chains ended the journey, and he knew that he'd been dropped into an Interrogation Chair. Again. And he knew what was coming.

A Dementor drifted closer, and Sirius felt himself flinch. The reaction was instinctive, and he had to fight back the urge to scream. Cold hands touched his face, and dark memories started to rise—_"How long, Black?" _Pain. _"Tell me. Now."_

"_No."_

Cold.

Pain.

"_Are you prepared to die, then? Because that is what most Aurors do, you realize," Moody barked at him the first day they met._

"_I'm willing to die if it's something worth dying for," he shot back._

So cold.

_No_. He would not do this. Not now. Gasping for air, Sirius fought the memories back, clung to his sanity. It grew harder with each passing day—but how long had he been in Azkaban, anyway? He had no way to know. He only knew that someone was coming, and the pain that never left him would begin again. It always did, and at least it was constant. At least he could concentrate on the pain and stay sane. Or what passed for sane in Azkaban, anyway.

Still shivering wildly, he forced his eyes open as the Dementors retreated. He was alone at the moment, but that would not last. It never did, and he had come to the point where he no longer expected that to change. Fear tried to rise, either driven by the Dementors or by his memories, but he pushed it back.

_I made my choices. I will stand by them._

That vow was all he had. His will was the only thing left of himself that he could control, and he would not let it break. Not for anything—but it was hard not to flinch when the door slid open. He wanted to be afraid. Fear would have been easier than a constant battle to keep his soul his own.

Breathe in. Breathe out._ Show no fear. _

A half-insane laugh almost bubbled up at that thought. _Keep telling yourself that, Padfoot. Maybe someday you'll believe it._

Footsteps echoed throughout the room as Voldemort approached, and Sirius made himself watch the other wizard approach without fear. He was dizzier than hell, but he could still make the Dark Lord out, and he'd be damned if he crumbled _now._ They had been fighting this battle for years, and it had never changed. Somehow, he did not think it ever would. But it killed him to sit still and wait for the pain. There was nothing worse than being unable to fight.

The burning chains tightened, making it almost impossible to breathe, but he knew that greater pain was coming. It always did. And all he could do was wait. Wait and stare, and pray that Voldemort never saw how hard it was to stay strong.

"Let's begin by having a conversation."

"Conversation." It hurt is throat to speak even that word, but he'd be damned if he'd let that stop him. Silence implied fear, and he would not show fear. Not in this lifetime.

And yet a little part of Sirius' brain acknowledged the fact that he kept talking, kept answering, in order to avoid the pain for just a little longer. Voldemort always wanted to talk, and Sirius always obliged him. It was the only way to postpone more torture, and he hated himself for taking that easy road.

"Yes. I realize that you have only been in the company of your betters, and lacking the company of peers, you have not had one in a while," the cold voice said lightly. Almost…teasingly. "But a conversation is when two people talk to one other."

Sirius snorted painfully. "I'm aware of the meaning, thanks." The burning in his throat made it even harder to breathe, and Sirius could have sworn that the chains tightened, even though Voldemort had not done anything. The bastard was in a good mood, and that was worrisome. "What the hell do you want?"

"Let's start simple. Tell me. Why do you fight?"

"Why do you care?" he retorted, coughing out what should have been a laugh.

"It is enough that I do. Answer the question."

"Go to hell."

"Ah. Wrong answer." Voldemort tapped his wand on the chains, and watched impassively as they constricted. Sirius felt his body jerk, and had to bite back the rising cry of pain. Breathing was hard enough without making noise, but he tasted blood where his teeth dug into his tongue.

He didn't bother to repeat himself. It wasn't worth the effort.

After ten seconds, Voldemort raised his wand, his voice growing sharper. "I will ask again. Same question."

Sirius wheezed. It was hard find enough breathe to reply, "Same answer, too. Just like it's been for the last…six damn years."

Again, Voldemort tapped his wand against the chains. Five more seconds. He couldn't bite back the scream this time, no matter how hard he tried, but it sounded weak and wasted even to his own ears.

"The question remains the same."

Sirius did not bother answering; he just closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. There was a least some poetic justice in knowing that Voldemort would not get his precious answer if he didn't let him breathe. _Serves you right_, he thought peevishly. Passing out from lack of air was not something he hadn't done before, after all, and judging from Voldemort's tone, at least he was starting to annoy the bastard.

"Conversations are not one sided entities. Speak."

"Make me," he rasped.

_"Imperio."_

Sudden warmth enveloped Sirius, and blackness took him as the pain began to fade. Yet he fought back instinctively, fought against the need to answer, the desire to do whatever Voldemort pleased. Long moments passed…it could have been eternity for all Sirius knew, but if there was one thing he had never failed in, it was keeping his soul intact. He would not give in, even though he knew where this had to end. Voldemort would win, eventually. Sirius would die there. He had no illusions, and did not think that it was just the Dementors making him think that way. _But I will die on my terms. Not yours._

He forced his eyes open with an effort and looked into the glowing red orbs without flinching. Some things just didn't have to be said. After this many years, they'd come to know one another far too well.

"Shall we do that again? Or is it simpler for you to answer my question? It's a fairly innocuous one, as questions go."

"You're not going to win," Sirius whispered before he could stop himself. It wasn't the smartest thing he could have done, of course, but he hadn't stayed alive by being smart.

"And what makes you say that?" Voldemort kept his wand raised, a dangerous glitter in his eye.

"Six years of trying..." Despite himself, he coughed, and it hurt like hell. "You haven't yet." _Not even when I want you to,_

"And here we still are. With a hundred years at least left to go."

Sirius was too weak to muster the appropriate amount of sarcasm; he would have liked to roll his eyes, but they didn't seem to be cooperating. "Hope you don't get bored with me."

Breathing was almost impossible. Was that from the terror inspired by thinking of another century of this pain, or just from how much it hurt? Sirius did not want to know, did not want to delve deeper into his psyche than it took to cover up his fears with cynicism.

"Ah, were I you, I'd hope the opposite. So tell me why you fight."

"Why do you care?"

"Consider it friendly conversation."

"Friendly." Snorting hurt. "Right." He coughed up blood.

"Answer the question, lest I become less friendly."

His mouth ran away with him before he could stop it. "You're sounding less convincing than usual, Voldemort," Sirius rasped. "You ought to work on your threatening delivery."

_"Crucio."_

Pain exploded and he screamed. There was no use fighting that, no way to do so. All he could do was scream his throat raw and wait for it to end—though it did both sooner and later than Sirius had expected. Finally, though, the agony faded and left him gasping for air. Voldemort's cold eyes were still staring at him, waiting for compliance. _Go to hell. _He felt the need to cough up a lung; his throat hurt too much to breathe right.

The room was trying to spin. He blinked and focused with and effort.

"Why do you fight?"

Breathe in. Breathe out. It burned. Damn chains. "Haven't you figured it out already?"

"Yes. I want to hear it from you, though."

"Obviously."

"Are you so obtuse that you would refuse to answer a question you know I know the answer to?" Voldemort wondered. "Are you so in love with being in pain?"

Blood came out his nose when he snorted. Bad idea. Why hadn't he remembered that from last time? "You know the answer to that, too," Sirius coughed.

"Then tell me."

"No."

_"Crucio."_

He should have blacked out, and wished that he had. Had Voldemort held him under the curse any longer, Sirius probably would have slipped under, but the Dark Lord was too wise for that...and he knew Sirius too well. Screaming burned, and he choked when it ended, struggling to breathe past the pain. Finally, though, he managed to make his battered body cooperate and stare back into the same set of red eyes that had haunted his nightmares for six long years.

"Why do you fight?"

"No." He didn't have the strength to say more.

Voldemort raised his wand. "Are you certain that is your answer?"

Fear tried to make his mouth say something Sirius would never say, but he conquered the urge. He wasn't going to plead, not if his life depended on it. Maybe it was stupid attitude to have, but he had to draw the line somewhere, and stubborn had gotten him this far. But even the slight motion of his mouth only made him cough again; the chains were far too tight, far too hot... Sirius choked hard, his body trying to convulse despite how tightly it was chained down.

Voldemort tapped his wand on the chains. They continued to glow, but even as Sirius braced for additional pain, they loosened ever so slightly. "In return for that, I expect an answer."

Any child could recognize what Voldemort was trying to do. Give and take—but this was not a game. Speaking was still painful. "I don't care what you expect."

"Shall I take back my gift, then?"

"You'll do it eventually, anyway," Sirius wheezed painfully.

"Are you so certain?"

He snorted up blood again, and it trickled into his mouth. "Quite."

"Prolong your respite, then, and answer the question."

"No." Not this time. Defiance was all he had.

Voldemort placed the wand on the chains, and Sirius cried out as they constricted further and further. Even as they did, the Dark Lord only watched dispassionately. His tone was almost clinical. _"Crucio."_

Agony. He did not even try to figure out how long it lasted, but he could hardly get in enough air to scream. His body was trying to jerk in the chains again, but it had nowhere to go, and the burning just got worse and worse against his torn skin. Sirius slumped when it ended, failing to bite back a moan of pain. Keeping his eyes open was so hard…

His focus was fading; Sirius was growing dizzy with pain. Blinking, he barely managed to make out Voldemort's figure before him.

Voldemort surveyed his carefully, and drawing a vial from his robes, he made to pour a potion down Sirius' throat. "I did not say you could have respite through passing out."

Sirius gagged and tried to pull away, but Voldemort was deft enough that every drop slid neatly down his damaged throat. The potion burned as it went down, making Sirius choke in pain.

"Why do you fight?"

"You keep asking as if my answer is going to change," Sirius managed to whisper. His throat burned more now than before, even if his hazy vision was trying to clear. _James…I'm so sorry._ He didn't even know what he was apologizing silently for, just that he was.

"It will." Voldemort sounded supremely confident, and Sirius could no longer even argue with him the way he once would have. He was too tired.

"So?" he whispered. "You know I'll fight you every step of the way."

"Yes, you will. But why?"

Sirius snorted and summoned up the courage to lie. "Because you hate it."

Somehow, he even managed the ghost of a nasty smile, even if doing so wasn't a good idea at all.

"That is not the truth. _Crucio_."

Pain. But pain was nothing new. The exhaustion creeping in on him, however, was worse than ever before, even with the potion that Voldemort had forced down his throat. Sirius screamed in pain a few times, but slumped when it ended—he was shaking, and no amount of self-control would make his body stop. Not that he'd really cared about such reactions in years; trying to stop himself from shaking just wasn't worth the effort. Who was he fooling, anyway? It was hard to open his eyes again, and he didn't bother to answer. It wasn't worth the energy.

"Why do you fight?"

He was too tired to do anything but stare. And speaking hurt too much.

"Why do you fight?" Voldemort repeated dangerously. So he answered, if only for variety.

"No."

Even that burned.

Slowly, Voldemort began tapping a rhythm on the chains, as though there were a melody in his head. Sirius could not help flinching away, even if he hated himself for showing that much fear. Yet the Dark Lord seemed to ignore him. With each fall of the wand, the chains glowed, shifted, and settled, changing position ever so slightly. Sirius gasped in pain, struggling for air. Blackness crept along the edges of his vision, but merciful unconsciousness did not come. Only pain.

Voldemort continued his tapping, still to the tune only he could hear. Sirius felt his body jerk, and he tried to bite back a scream of pain. It didn't work. His body started convulsing each time Voldemort's wand touched down.

Between the gasps and the screams, Sirius could not have answered if he wanted to. He clung to consciousness with an effort, not sure why he even bothered to do so, but knowing that passing out would only make matters worse. But breathing was getting harder with each passing moment, and the withered corner of his soul just wanted to answer. To give in. To make it end.

_No._

The tapping stopped. Voldemort walked around the chair, and suddenly a cold hand landed on Sirius' face. Even as he flinched, Voldemort pulled his head around to face his new direction. He tried to jerk back, but was too weak to manage. All the effort did was make his face hurt.

"And where _did_ you think you could go if you got an inch away?"

A cough was the only answer he could manage. His body was still convulsing.

Voldemort caressed the side of his face, wiping away blood, almost gently. Sirius gritted his teeth and tried futilely to pull away once more, not caring if it was fruitless. He hated feeling helpless, hated submitting meekly to the Dark Lord's whim...but his body would not cooperate. It was all he could do to keep breathing, to keep from crying in pain. Soft moans shook his body constantly. Voldemort's hands were cold, so cold that they chilled him to the bone...he shivered, despite himself.

"I could kill you inside of a minute. But you and I both know I won't do that. Tell me what I want to hear, and let me bring you back from the brink," his enemy said softly. Persuasively.

The most damnable thing about it was that he had a point. Sirius wanted to object, but his mouth answered before his mind could wrap itself around resistance. "Friends. Loyalty."

He coughed up blood again.

Voldemort chuckled softly. "Yes, loyalty. You are a veritable font of loyalty. And you are going to be loyal to me…one way or another."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ This is actually one of the first parts of the story I ever wrote…and goes into the next chapter. I apologize if it's depressingly heavy, but…Sirius isn't exactly on a picnic here. The rest of Voldemort's attempt to (finally) control Sirius is in the next chapter, "Choices Made."


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